


Mad Love

by 7_wonders



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-01-24 07:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18567202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7_wonders/pseuds/7_wonders
Summary: A regular evening of studying takes a sick turn when the woman you always see at the grocery store kidnaps you. Things get even crazier when you find out why: to be the bride of the Antichrist.





	1. Your Love is Killing Me

The leaves of the large oak trees rustle in the chilly breeze, and you hug your jacket closer to your body. It’s late, the sky streaked with the dark blues and purples that a sunset leaves behind. Staying as close to the streetlights as possible, you pick up your pace and hustle to your car. Under normal circumstances, you never would have parked so far away from the library, or any building, but you had already been running late and the only parking spot available felt like it was a mile away (though that’s most likely an exaggeration). The once-full parking lot is now sparse, only a few cars remaining. 

You’re naturally cautious, as most women your age are in the 21st century. If you hadn’t been so eager to finish your work, you would have walked out with your friends an hour ago. Instead, you waited until the library was nearly closed to realize that it was probably a good idea to get back home, and now there was nobody to walk out with. As a result, your keys are clutched between your fingers, acting as a makeshift weapon against anybody who dares to get close to you. There’s no cars parked directly by yours, and you can feel yourself relax knowing how close you are to a hot shower and a comfy bed. Hitting the button on your key fob to unlock the car, your hand stalls on the handle when you hear a car door slam. 

You hurriedly slip into your own car, locking the doors behind you. When a knock sounds on your window, you jump and whip towards the noise. A woman with cropped black hair and dark painted lips waves at you through the glass, and after you get over your fright you realize it’s only the nice woman you frequently run into at the grocery store. 

“Hello, Ms. Mead.” You greet politely, rolling down the window in order to speak with her. 

“Sorry to scare you like that, (Y/N).”

“It’s fine, I’d rather it be you than someone with bad intentions.” She chuckles at your joke, placing her hand on the frame of the car to steady herself. 

“I hate to bother you when I know you’re on your way home, but you wouldn’t have happened to see my son in the library, did you?” 

“Your son?” You question, frowning slightly. 

“Adopted son, actually. He came to me under difficult circumstances, and I’ve taken him in. You’ve probably seen him at the market with me: tall, he’s got shaggy blond hair, probably wearing black?” 

“Oh yeah! Michael, right?” You haven’t seen him with his ‘mother’ for a few months, not since the day before that poor butcher got stabbed at the grocery store, but he must be back now. Ms. Mead smiles and nods. 

“That’s him.” 

“I wish I could say I’ve seen him, but I haven’t. He might’ve been in there though; I was pretty focused on my own stuff, and didn’t look around much.” 

“Guess I’ll just wait around a little longer, see if he’s one of the last to come out.” You smile sympathetically, grabbing her hand in comfort. 

“I’m sure he will, don’t worry. With a mom like you, he’s bound to have a good head on his shoulders.”

“Thank you, sweet girl.” Your smile falls slightly when her grip grows stronger on your hand. 

“Have a good night, Ms. Mead.” You try to take your hand back, but to no avail. Ms. Mead’s other hand moves out of the corner of your eye, and before you can react you feel a sharp pinch at your neck. You hand flies up in alarm, only to meet a syringe sticking out of you. Your limbs grow heavy, and your head lolls to the side as your vision blurs. Right before you lose consciousness, you see the woman reach to unlock the car door, a wide smile still on her face.

* * *

 

Your bed is extremely warm today, and you groan in dissatisfaction when you realize you're awake. Stretching your arms above your head, you relish the feeling of the silk sheets against your sore joints. Your eyes pop open in alarm once you remember that you don’t own any silk sheets. In a flash, the events that happened before Ms. Mead stabbed you in the neck with a needle flood your memory. 

Scrambling up into a sitting position, you try to figure out where you are. The bed that you’re in is large, larger than any other bed you’ve ever slept in. The black silk sheets match the heavy black comforter, a black and red color scheme being utilized throughout the entire room. The lighting is dimmed, and a large inverted star in a circle hangs on the wall across from you. Your horror at your predicament only increases when you look down and see you’re not wearing the clothes you were earlier. Instead of your jeans and sweatshirt, your body’s covered in a black slip, and the same star-and-circle shape is on a pendant around your neck.

The door opens, and a woman in a cloak enters the room. 

“Oh good, you’re awake! It’s funny; that little, itty-bitty amount of serum knocks a person out for quite some time.” 

“Please help me, I don’t know where I am and I need to get out of here.” You plead, shifting off of the bed to grab her arm. 

“You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Don’t worry, we haven’t started the fun without our guest of honor.” 

“Are you gonna kill me?” You can’t stop your lip from wobbling, the only visible sign that you’re on the verge of losing it. The woman chuckles, and you flinch when she caresses your cheek. 

“Oh no, no, no! Nothing like that.” She moves to the end of the bed, opening up a trunk and pulling out a garment bag. “Let’s get you dressed; he was the one who picked this out.” 

“‘He?’” You question, but the woman doesn’t answer. Instead, she unzips the bag and pulls out a dress. “What the hell is going on here?” 

“Something we’ve been waiting for for a very long time.” You want to fight, to scream and run, but even if you did manage to get out of this room, you don’t even know where you are right now. So you allow yourself to be dressed, watching in the mirror as the woman fawns over you. The outfit that ‘he’ picked out is a black dress that flows to your knees. A lace overlay completes the look, sleeves extending to your elbows. It’s a beautiful gown, and in any other situation you’d be obsessed with it. 

Once you’re deemed ready, you’re dragged out of the room with a firm grip on your arm. You try to find anything to help you figure out where you are, but there’s no doors or windows in the hallway you’re being led down. When the large doors ahead of you open, your mouth falls. It looks like some kind of church, with pews creating an aisle down the center of the room. The seats are filled with people, all wearing the same cloaks as the woman you first encountered. The shape that’s on the pendant you’re wearing is prevalent everywhere, whether it be the fastenings on everyone’s cloaks or the giant one suspended at the head of the room. Dully, you finally recall that the shape’s a pentagram. 

You’ve been so preoccupied in dissecting everything one-by-one, that it takes you a moment to actually grasp what’s at the end of this aisle. A tall, bald man with a black goatee stands at the top of the steps, holding a thick book in his hands. On the step below him stands a figure you’re familiar with--Michael Langdon, Ms. Mead’s ‘son.’

Even so, he looks different than he did when you last saw him months ago. His hair is longer, with the ends getting close to brushing his shoulders. He’s developed a sense of fashion, replacing the cut-off shirts and Doc Martens with a tailored suit and red bottoms. Even his demeanor has changed, and he stands proudly and confidently. He’s smirking at you, eyes glinting in the light of the flaming torches that line the walls. 

A firm hand on your back has you stumbling forward, arms pinwheeling in front of you to attempt to regain your balance. You spin around, hoping that you can make a break for the main doors, but you’re stopped by two very large men who weren’t there before. Knowing that you’re not going to walk willingly, they each take an arm and haul you to the front of the room. Michael’s smirk widens to a smile as he faces you, but you’re sure your face is the exact opposite. 

“Michael, we don’t have to do whatever’s going to happen. Just let me go, I won’t even tell the police.” You whisper frantically, searching his eyes for some sort of remorse. 

“Why would I let you go now that I finally have you?” He takes your hands in his, and a shudder runs through you. 

The overwhelming question that keeps running through your brain is  _ why me?  _ What compelled Ms. Mead to knock you out and kidnap you, and all of these people to become willing bystanders in whatever is about to happen.  _ Maybe I should’ve just kept my head down whenever I saw him. I shouldn’t have offered him a ride home when I saw him walking in the rain, shouldn’t have told him how nice his smile was, or that he had a good taste in music. Would he still have singled me out then? _

“Dear believers,” you jump at the booming voice of the man above you, and Michael strokes his thumb over your hand in what you assume is supposed to be a comforting gesture. “We are gathered here together in the presence of our Lord Satan and the souls of the damned, to witness this most unholy matrimony between the Antichrist and his dark bride.”

A shaky gasp expels itself from your lungs as you try to comprehend what’s happening. The entire situation is ludicrous, and if it weren’t for having woken up earlier you would try to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. The mere idea of being in a Satanic church, face-to-face with the fucking Antichrist who had kidnapped you in order to marry you against your will is a plot straight out of a crazy fiction novel. Unfortunately, it’s a fiction novel you’re now living in.

“‘Matrimony?’ You don’t even  _ know _ me!” You hiss, attempting to rip your hands away from him. He holds you still, and draws you even closer to him. 

“Oh, my darling, I know everything about you. Our souls are entwined with each other; you were made for me, sent to me by my father to be by my side.” Tears brim up in your eyes as you look out at the crowd, desperately hoping one of them will step in, put a stop to this madness, and save you. “Continue, Anton.” Michael commands.

“Michael Langdon, as the one begotten son of Satan, you are responsible with re-molding the world in His image. Of course, no one can undertake a task such as this alone, not even the Antichrist. For that, you have (Y/N) (Y/L/N). Two souls that were specially created for one another, to help support each other, to love and to cherish each other.” The man--Anton--produces a dagger from some hidden pocket in his cloak. Michael, who apparently already knows what to do, takes it from him.

“Cut my hand, (Y/N).” Michael encourages, holding the dagger’s handle towards you. “I’ll do the same to you, and this will serve as our vows.”

“What the fuck? No!” You start shaking your head in disbelief. Michael takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to look him in the eyes. You don’t know exactly what he does, but your gazes are locked on each other no matter how hard you try to look away from him. 

“Take the dagger and cut my hand.” Your movements are disconnected from your mind as you take the weapon, your muscles twitching as you attempt to gain control over your body again. The skin is easily sliced open with the smallest amount of pressure, dark droplets of blood pooling in Michael’s palm.

“How did you make me do that?” You ask, Michael gripping the dagger with his non-injured hand. 

“Just a simple concilium spell; I apologize for having to use magic on you, but I promise that it’ll be worth it.” He grins, quickly slicing your own palm. You hiss at the sting of the air on your cut, Michael placing his injury against yours. The feeling of hot, sticky blood mixing together on your palm has your skin crawling. The torches flicker before going out with a whoosh, yet the room remains lit with a red glow that you can’t find the source of.

A ring appears in Michael’s hand, and before you can protest he’s slipped it on your ring finger. It’s a delicate silver band, a blood-red diamond sitting in the center of it. The cuts have both healed, dried blood being the only remaining sign that you were ever injured in the first place. Tears roll down your face while the audience cheers and the torches relight themselves. 

“The vows have been completed and Satan has voiced his approval for this union. By the power vested in me by our Dark Lord, I pronounce you husband and wife.” Michael’s ecstatic at Anton’s declaration, smirking towards his loyal followers. 

“May I...kiss you?” For the first time tonight, he’s hesitant. You’re completely in shock and shaking like a leaf, not even comprehending what he’s just said. Michael takes your lack of an answer as a ‘yes,’ slowly leaning in towards you and placing a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. It’s a gentle gesture, one that doesn’t seem like Michael at all. 

“M-Michael.” You stutter, tears turning to heaving sobs as the reality of this situation sets in. Michael smiles at you sadly, taking his time to kiss the drops of water off of your face. 

“Don’t worry, (Y/N). You’ll learn to accept your role in the New World, just as I have.” Your chest heaves, breathing without managing to take in any air. “I love you, so much, and you’re going to love me too.”


	2. Totally F***ed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael lays out the terms and conditions for this screwed-up marriage you’re now unwillingly a part of.

When you were little, you used to love carousels. The cheerful music that played nonstop, the beautiful painted horses that were forever frozen to one pose, and the whirling of the ride around its fixed axis. Most of all, you loved picking your favorite horse and throwing your head back, letting the world blur around you. The music, the colors, the people, the smells, they all morphed together until you were nearly dizzy from the overload on your senses. Your current situation has you feeling like the small child on the carousel again, but with less cotton candy and more Satanists.

Your head is spinning as you try to keep up with everything that’s happening. The followers had swarmed to the front of the room after Michael had given them the signal, hands gripping at your clothes and lifting you into the air. Every so often, you get a glimpse of a face; the expressions are all the same, with their creepy smiles and wide eyes. They’re cheering and singing while they carry you out of the ‘sanctuary’ (can you call it a sanctuary if it’s in a Satanic church?) and into another area of this still-unfamiliar building. Michael’s enjoying this far too much, smirking and waving at those that carry him next to you. 

While the man responsible for this mess relishes in the attention, you’re scoping the place out. There’s windows out here, and the light filtering through makes you think that the ‘church’ itself is a large basement-type building. There’s a few doors around you, but none of them look like a main door that would lead outside. From what you can discern, there’s not much security around here, with the main bodyguards being the ones that guard the room you were just in. 

You land ungracefully on your feet, the people carrying you obviously not coordinated with lowering you to the ground. Michael stands in front of you, cheeks red and hair mussed, and takes your hand in his. Loud cheers bubble up from the crowd as you’ve reached what you’re assuming is the final destination. Michael pulls you through an open doorway, Anton smirking and closing the door behind you. The music and yelling is muffled now, the group of revelers getting farther away from the sounds of it. It’s just you and Michael now, which honestly terrifies you more than all of the previous events. 

If this was a normal day, you’d appreciate the sudden silence and lack of people. But it’s not a normal day, and you almost find yourself wishing the ‘believers’ were still here. Michael, who’s exuded confidence since the moment you woke up, suddenly looks nervous as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He lets go of your hand, and you immediately wrap your arms around yourself as a pseudo-shield. 

“How are you feeling? Can I get you a drink?” Your throat burns, but you don’t want to be drugged again. 

“Water?” Your voice comes out as a whisper, and you’re mildly surprised Michael could hear you. Michael makes quick work at fulfilling your request, handing you a heavy glass with water. Although you’re nowhere near an expert when it comes to detecting foreign substances in drinks, you still sniff your drink to make sure. 

“It’s just plain water, I promise. I would never drug you; that was my Ms. Mead’s doing.” You nod, finally taking a small sip of the water that’s followed by a much larger gulp. You drain the water quickly, Michael looking on as he takes dignified sips of his own drink. “Would you like some more?” You shake your head, so he places both empty glasses on the dresser. 

“What...what are you gonna do to me?” Michael smiles softly in what you think is an attempt to reassure you. 

“Well, after the wedding comes the traditional bedding ceremony. My father would prefer I make an heir sooner rather than later, but I’m in no hurry.” He shrugs, explaining this like he would explain how to get to the nearest gas station. Your body tenses when you realize what he means by ‘bedding ceremony.’ 

You want to knock him out, wrench open the door and run for freedom. The headlines flash through your head, all about how ‘girl escapes local cult’ and ‘Satanic church kidnaps woman to be unwilling bride!’ In this happy ending, everybody would go to jail and you’d have a fun story to tell people from now on. Instead, you know that you’re stuck. You’ve seen his powers, how he forced you to cut his hand just by looking you in the eyes. If, by some miracle, you did manage to get past Michael, there’s no guarantee the hordes of Satanists wouldn’t snatch you the second you open the door. You want--no,  _ need _ \--to survive, and you’ll do anything to get out of here. 

As he approaches you, your limbs lock in fear. He gently pulls the zipper down your dress, and you allow it to slip down your arms and pool around your ankles. You clench your eyes shut, since there’s no way you can look this man in the eye. You’re left shivering in just the slip that you were wearing when you woke up. 

“So beautiful.” He mutters, picking up the pendant hanging around your neck. 

“Just get it over with, please.” You stutter, flinching away from him. You’re not sure why it’s him calling you ‘beautiful’ that has you wanting to throw up everywhere, but it gets you to finally speak up. Michael reacts entirely differently than you thought; instead of throwing you on the bed and having his way with you, his hands leave your body entirely as you hear his breathing pick up. When you finally open your eyes, you see him standing with his hands held in the air and his eyes opened wide. 

“You...you don’t want this?” You’re feeling bold, apparently, as you bark out an incredulous laugh. 

“What part of today made you believe that I would actually enjoy this? Certainly it wasn’t the kidnapping part of it all. Could it be the forced marriage? Or maybe you using magic in order to get me to cut your hand open? That was quite the turn on, let me tell you, nothing like being stripped of your free will.” Your voice is dripping with sarcasm as you glare at him. When he reaches for you, you jump back. “Don’t touch me!” 

“No, hey, I wasn’t going to do anything bad. You’re shaking, I just wanted to help you out.” 

“Oh,  _ now  _ you wanna help?” You scoff, rolling your eyes. Michael ignores the barb, instead grabbing a blanket from the bed and wrapping you in it. You begrudgingly take it from him, holding it around your shoulders. Michael’s biting his lip as he looks at you, pity in his eyes. 

“Do you...want to take a shower?”

“No funny business?” You ask. 

“You have my word. Let me find you some clothes, okay?” You watch closely as he rummages through the dressers, eventually coming up with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He hands them to you, taking care to not touch you. “Take your time. There’s a lock on the inside of the door, if that’ll make you feel better.” You spare him one last glance before closing the bathroom door, fumbling with the lock as quickly as you can. 

You remain in the shower for a long time after the water grows cold. After furiously scrubbing every part of you that had been touched by Michael or one of the Satanists, you just stood and let the water fall over you as you thought. Eventually, your thoughts start to spiral, and you find yourself sitting on the cold tile floor, your tears mixing with the shower itself. You only get up when your fingers are considerably pruned up and your legs are numb. There’s a towel hanging on the rack outside of the shower door, and you grab one and wrap it around yourself. 

Water droplets fall off of your dripping hair, making you hurry to get changed into the clothes Michael gave you so you can towel off your hair. The sweatpants sag off of your hips, but the shirt is large enough that it falls down to mid-thigh. You realize with mild disgust that these are Michael’s clothes, but there’s really nothing that you can do about it. While you dry your hair, you search for a brush or a comb. Coming up empty, you have no choice but to hang the towel back up and let your tangled hair dry all the way. 

Michael looks up when you open the door. He’s also changed his clothes, switching out the cloak and tailored suit for his own pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He looks utterly dressed down, and a lot like the boy you used to know. There’s no alternate place to sit besides the bed, so you choose to lean against the wall facing Michael. 

“Do you need something to brush out your hair?” He asks, waiting until you nod to stand. He disappears into the bathroom, coming out moments later with a brush in hand. “Let me know if this makes you uncomfortable, but can I...brush your hair for you?” You visibly cringe at this, giving him his answer. 

“Uh, probably not?” You awkwardly hold your hand out for the brush, but he withholds it. 

“Will you at least sit down? I just want you to be comfortable.” You hold back the rolling of the eyes. If he really wanted you to be comfortable, he would help you leave right now and turn himself in to the cops. 

“Don’t touch me.” You say sharply, waiting for confirmation before you move. 

“I promise you, (Y/N).” Luckily the bed’s king-sized, so you have a few feet in between. “Do you have any questions? I imagine today’s been a lot for you to take in.” He asks, leaning back against the pillows while you start to work on the knots in your hair. 

“Why me?” 

“I already told you this. We’re meant to be together, we’re made for each other. I know that sounds crazy to you, but it’s not. Satan made us to be each other’s soulmates.” 

“You’re fucking delusional.” You spit, grimacing when you hit a particularly gnarly tangle. 

“I’m not! You were chosen for a reason, we wouldn’t have crossed paths so many times like we did.” Your nostrils flare, but you move on to the next question. 

“Fine then, why were you so confused that I wasn’t...looking forward to your twisted ‘bedding ceremony?’” Michael runs a hand through his hair before sighing. 

“Our vows were also supposed to be a bonding ritual. It was a way to make the transition to my wife easier for you, bring out the feelings that lie within your soul. I wasn’t aware that it didn’t work on you, or else I would have never even tried that. I may be the Antichrist, (Y/N), but I’m still a gentleman.” 

“When can I go home?” You fire your final question at the man, who stands up and crosses to a drink cart you weren’t aware was there. 

“You do, of course, have free will. You’ll wake up tomorrow and walk right out the front door, and the secretary will tell you to have a nice day. You’ll go back to school, work, resume your relationships with your friends and family. But rest assured, if you try to go to the police about this, or tell anyone what happened, there will be dire consequences.” 

“I’d like to see you try!” You snort. Michael’s demeanor shifts once again, going from relaxed to calculating as he chuckles deeply. 

“The Cooperative, those people you saw out there? We’re the largest organization out there. Basically the Illuminati, if that helps you. We have members everywhere; politics, business, sports, law enforcement.” He hints, letting you know that the police will do nothing without actually saying it. “And, your parents? Is your mom still enjoying her job at (Y/M/J)? Or how about your dad, has he gotten that promotion yet?” He smirks as your eyes widen. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” You hiss.

“Oh, but I would, and I think you know that.” You’re kidding yourself if you don’t think he would harm your loved ones, the man literally had you kidnapped in a well-lit parking lot. He’ll stop at nothing to accomplish his own fucked up goals. 

“So, what happens now?” You finally say, Michael smirking triumphantly. 

“I already told you.” 

“I know that, but as your…” Your lip curls into a sneer. “‘Wife,’ what would change in my life?”

“You’d be expected to stand by my side at various Cooperative meetings, as well as helping with some executive decisions. In addition to this, you’ll spend the weekends with me.”

“No way!”

“Yes way. I said you could go back to your normal life, I didn’t say that there wouldn’t be stipulations to that. The alternative to this is always being by my side no matter what, if you’d prefer that?” 

You breathe deeply, trying to make sure that you don’t go ballistic in this moment and do something that you’ll end up regretting. 

“And if I do this, you’ll stay away from my family and friends?” He holds his hands up, which you think is supposed to be comforting but it’s actually more mocking than anything. 

“You have my word.” 

“Alright, then.” His smile only widens, his teeth looking particularly sharp in the lighting. 

“Fantastic. I’ll leave you to get some rest and I look forward to seeing you next weekend.” He walks out the door with a skip in his step, and you chuck the hairbrush at the wall the second the door closes. What the hell did you get yourself into?


	3. The Isle of Flightless Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re free, but with a few restrictions. This doesn’t settle well, so you decide to see how far you can test said restrictions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hope you've enjoyed 'Mad Love' so far! I really appreciate all of your kudos on the first two chapters, and I would love if you would leave me some feedback (if you feel so inclined). Thanks for reading, and enjoy this chapter!

Sleep is not something that finds you throughout the night. In fact, even if you had gotten tired, you would have fought it off with everything you have in you. Instead, you sit huddled up on the bed, knees tucked against your chest as you watch the door intensely. You’re not sure what time it is or how much time has passed, the lack of a clock and any windows complicating your current predicament. Eventually, the door opens, and you glare at the blond devil who walks into the room.

“Good morning, sunshine.” He greets, a cheerful smirk on his face. He tosses a bundle of clothes towards you, which you realize are the clothes you were wearing the night you were kidnapped. “Get dressed, your car’s parked outside.”

You slide off of the bed, refusing to look away from Michael. Your eyes burn from how little you’ve blinked in the past few hours, and you’re sure the purple rings under your eyes are even more pronounced than usual.

“Can you at least turn around, please?” You owe him no polite requests, but it’s habit that makes you throw in a ‘please’ at the end of your question. He raises an eyebrow towards you but obliges, turning around so that his back faces towards you.

You change as quick as you possibly can, keeping your eyes on the back of his head the whole time. If there was a knife in here, it’d be so easy to catch him off guard, stab him, and make a clean getaway in your car while the Antichrist himself bleeds out on the floor.

“I heard that, y’know. Clever, but you’d never be able to sneak up on me like that.”

“As your wife, can I maybe give you a suggestion?” You quip, buttoning up your jeans. “You can turn around again.”

“Of course you can.” His voice drips with a saccharine tone as his blue eyes sparkle with mischief.

“How about you not read my fucking thoughts? It’s rude and invasive.”

“No promises, but I’ll try my hardest to not read your thoughts.” It’s half-assed and you know he won’t follow through, but at least he’s trying to compromise.

Tying the laces on your shoes, you stand up and look at Michael, who’s examining you closely. You huff and cross your arms self-consciously, staring him down.

“What now?”

“We’ll have to get you a new wardrobe for your time spent with me. No offense, but your current outfit is…lazy.” He points out, looking at your hoodie, black jeans, and sneakers with disdain.

“Give me a warning next time you’re going to kidnap me and I’ll put a little more effort into my appearance.” You say sarcastically, rolling your eyes at his gall.

“We need to work on your attitude as well.” He fires back.

“Can I go now?”

He sighs deeply, extending an arm towards the open door. You pass him, shooting a backwards glance to make sure he doesn’t try anything. The hallways look a lot different when you’re not disoriented and being carried by a bunch of Satanists. Michael walks alongside you, his hands behind his back as he attempts to make idle chatter, which you ignore.

You nearly cry when you see sunlight streaming through the open doors in front of you. You’ve been a hostage for maybe 36 hours, but it honestly feels like you’ve been trapped for months. Just as Michael promised, your car sits right outside, keys in the ignition and ready to go. Before you can run for it, Michael grabs your wrist.

“Remember our little agreement.” He warns you. “If you slip up, I _will_ know, and there will be consequences.” Your mouth goes dry and your heart quickens when he kisses the corner of your mouth, reminding you of the same kiss he gave you at the conclusion of your ‘wedding.’

“I won’t.”

“See you next weekend. I’ll send you instructions at a later time.” He releases his grip on your wrist, and you hightail it around to the driver’s side of your car. Michael waves at you as you prepare to go, and you flip him off before driving away.

* * *

The first couple of days after you get back home, you try to convince yourself that it was all a horrible nightmare. Especially after waking up in your own bed, you fully believed that you had vividly imagined what happened. Until you rubbed your eyes and noticed the silver ring with the blood-red diamond on your ring finger, you were all too ready to move on with your life and forget that this ever happened.

The stupid ring won’t budge, no matter how hard you try to remove it from your finger. Yanking as hard as you can just resorted in a weird popping noise that you’re pretty sure meant you almost dislocated the bone, butter only made your finger oily, and floss was rubbed back and forth so hard that it wore down and snapped. You’re insanely frustrated, and you’ve already faced numerous questions about if you eloped with a mystery man over the weekend (‘ _nope, just got a new ring but didn’t realize that I put it on this finger_ ,’ you joked).

On Thursday, you receive a text from an unknown number that you soon learn is Michael. You’re not sure how he got your number, but honestly that’s the least of your concerns right now. In addition to telling you where you’ll be spending the weekend with him and what to bring, he also outlines everything you’ve done this week, and everything your family’s done. You had been extremely careful all week, being hypervigilant everywhere you went and making sure to avoid anybody that you didn’t know. After reading Michael’s text, you quickly covered all the cameras on your various devices.

A friend of yours who’s a tech whiz had given you a couple of new software programs that scramble your IP address and make your browsing history completely private, an inquiry that you had managed to pass off as simply being ‘scared of the government.’ After successfully installing it on your laptop, you start to conduct some research.

You start your search off on Google, different tabs open for ‘Satanists,’ ‘Antichrist,’ and ‘forced marriage.’ When those turn up nothing but biblical references and news articles about child brides in third world countries, you expand to ‘is a marriage legal without a marriage license,’ ‘Illuminati,’ and ‘contacting police when there’s a good chance your stalker will find out about it.’

Three hours of intense searching has turned up absolutely nothing, so you’ve decided to drown your sorrows in a bag of popcorn and some Netflix. You’re halfway through an episode of _The Office_ , your go-to feel-good show, when your phone rings. The caller ID says ‘Unknown,’ but you know who it is by now.

“Hello?” You greet, pausing your screen but refusing to let up on the popcorn.

“Hello my darling, how’s your evening been?” You roll your eyes at the pet name, but you have to play along or else he’ll get pissed.

“Fine, Michael, and you?”

“It’s been pleasant, although better now that I get to hear your lovely voice.”

“What do you want?”

“You sure do love cutting right to the point. Eager to get back to whatever you were doing?”

“Well yeah, I kind of need to finish this homework.”

“Really? Because I thought you were watching _The Office_.” Your blood runs cold and the phone falls from your hand, but you can still hear him loud and clear. “‘The Dundies,’ (Y/N), really? There’s so many better episodes to watch.”

“How did you-”

“Did you really think that your feeble attempts at hiding your computer history would work? I have some of the top software developers in the world at my disposal, it was only a matter of seconds before they were able to break through whatever your friend had installed on your laptop. Nice try, though.” You snatch the phone back up, switching it to speaker.

“Michael, it was just research, I wasn’t going to tell anyone about-”

“Cut the shit.” He interrupts you again. “You seem to think that you can outsmart me. I’m sorry Nancy Drew, but there’s no escaping this. You are my wife, and you will remain my wife.”

“Please don’t hurt my family, I didn’t break the rules!” You gasp, heart physically aching at the thought of possibly endangering your loved ones.

“You’re right, you didn’t break the rules. Therefore, no one gets hurt.” You cry out in relief, tears streaming down your face. “I assume this is a good enough warning for you? Don’t try to go behind my back (Y/N). I will find out.”

“I hate you.” You spit.

“That’ll change. I’m excited to see you tomorrow, my darling.” He hangs up before you get a chance to retort. You slam your laptop shut, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of getting to see you break down at your situation, which is looking more and more hopeless by the hour.


	4. A Hard Day's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how much you’ve wished that the ground would open up and swallow you, Friday arrives and brings along your first weekend with Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter!

Weekends used to be something you looked forward to. There’s probably not a person in the world who doesn’t like weekends, honestly. You can sleep in, there’s no school or work, and it’s two whole days to do whatever you want. Now, though, as you drive to the address that Michael provided you, you can’t help but feel a sense of dread. Every weekend from now to the foreseeable future, you’re going to be forced to spend with the man who kidnapped you and forced you to marry him.

While the weeks are supposed to be yours, you live under the constant fear that Michael or his goons are watching you. After what happened yesterday, you don’t doubt that he’s somehow able to watch every aspect of your life. You suppose it could be worse, though; you could have to spend every single day with him. For now, you’ll take just having to be his from Friday night to Sunday afternoon.

The long, winding driveway up to the modern-looking manor catches you by surprise; you had expected to be going to Ms. Mead’s comfy little house that she had told you about whenever you saw her at the supermarket, not this mansion. When you pull up in front of the door, you wrinkle your nose in disgust at seeing Michael’s wide smile. He’s dressed like he’s going to some fancy event, a velvet jacket completing his look. His long hair is disheveled, and you briefly wonder if he’d consider tying it up before shoving that thought out of your mind. _It’s funny how excited he gets whenever you’re around_ , you think as he walks to open your door for you. Who would have thought that the Antichrist could have a crush.

“(Y/N), welcome.” He extends a hand, which you begrudgingly take and allow him to help you out of your car.

“Hey, Michael.” You’re not nearly as excited as he is, but you figure it’s best to play nice for now.

“I see you found the place alright?”

“The Cooperative owns this?” You ask, gesturing to the large house in front of you.

“The Cooperative bought it, but since my father owns the Cooperative, I own this.” He smirks, leading you towards the house. “Any bags?”

“Funny.” You roll your eyes. Michael, having deemed your clothes too ‘plain’ for the wife of the Antichrist, stocked a wardrobe for you at his house instead of letting you bring a bag of your own clothes. In the week that you and Michael had been married, you were quickly learning how to pick your battles. “So what’s on the agenda this weekend?”

“I figured I would give you a couple of hours to get settled in. I, uh, gave you a separate bedroom, so you can be more comfortable.” He runs a hand through his hair, and you realize that he’s _nervous_.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Of course.” His nerves are a moment of weakness, a chink in his seemingly impenetrable armor, and he quickly adjusts back to his collected persona. “When you’re ready tonight, we can talk more about what being my wife entails over dinner. I expect you to be dressed in the attire that we have provided for you.”

The staff all bows their heads in respect as you and Michael pass by, the man leading you up a grand staircase and towards the direction of what you’re guessing are the bedrooms.

“No Cooperative meetings this weekend though, right?” After all of the shit you’ve been through lately, it’s funny that you’re still scared of the idea of having to stand in front of a room full of people that you don’t know. Michael can sense your unease at the idea and smirks.

“None this weekend. We decided to ease you into everything.” You hate to admit it, but you’re thankful that he seems to have some sort of a heart. “Here’s your room.”

The door swings open, and it’s exactly what you’re expecting. Modern, red and black decor with the pentagram prominently displayed on the wall. It looks just like the room you first woke up in when this nightmare began, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you had driven away from the Satanic church you would think this was the same room.

“Does every room look like this?” An unspoken question dangles in the air: _does your room look like this?_ Michael grins widely, but it’s devoid of any of the emotions that a regular smile would accompany. It’s the smile of the devil.

“Guess you’ll have to find out for yourself, won’t you?” He chuckles at the withering glare you give him, loping back towards the door and resting a hand on the silver handle. “I will come and get you in two hours, alright?”

“That’s fine.” You say without looking at him, wrapping your arms around yourself. Thankfully, Michael leaves without another word, shutting the door behind him.

Your first hour and a half at Michael Langdon’s mansion is spent sitting on the bed, staring into space. He had let you keep your phone, knowing you wouldn’t tell anyone, but you can’t bring yourself to even look at it. How can you be expected to mindlessly scroll through Twitter when you have an upcoming ‘date’ with the fucking son of Satan? Things that were once an integral part of your daily life, such as social media and books, are now trivial in your eyes. There’s a whole other, darker world out there that nobody knows about, and it feels like the wool has now been pulled back from your eyes.

You only get dressed in Michael-approved clothes when you realize that you’re literally running out of time. You’re relieved to find that, for all of the evil things Michael is, he is not a pervert. The clothes are perfectly sensible, albeit all black and red, and they’re styles that you would wear on a regular day. You slip into a pair of black leather pants that, although uncomfortable, are actually very flattering on your figure. A red flowy top slides easily over your torso, and you shove some Louboutins on your feet right as Michael knocks on the door.

“I’m impressed, you look very nice.” You frown, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

“Uh, thanks, I think?” Michael looks confused for a moment before realizing his backhanded insult.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I just-you always look nice, but I was expecting you to refuse to wear these clothes or something like that.” He rubs his hands against the legs of his pants, flustered.

“Can we go eat now, or are you going to keep stuttering out mean things?” You know it’s petty, but you can afford to act petty in this situation.

He extends an arm, his attempt at chivalry, but you push past him and walk down the stairs towards what you’re assuming is the dining room. Unfortunately, he catches up to you easily, grabbing your arm and not-so-gently pulling you towards him. The dining room is spacious, windows making up three of the four walls and providing ample lighting. A large table with at least 20 chairs sits proudly in the center of the room, and staff line the walls while they wait to serve their savior.

“I don’t get to meet papa Satan tonight?” You tease, sliding onto the chair that Michael pulls out for you.

“He’s not exactly a person, (Y/N), so it would be impossible for him to physically be here.”

“Humor’s not your strong suit, I see.” He stares at you for a moment before forcing a chuckle, but he still looks extremely confused as he walks to his own seat across from you.

The servers descend the second Michael pulls his chair in towards the table, all carrying covered dishes that they gracefully set on the table. One-by-one they unveil the food that lies beneath, a variety of soups, salads and meats. Michael eagerly starts piling food on his plate, but stops when he notices your hesitation.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…all this food, just for the two of us? Isn’t that a little wasteful?” You question, glancing down at the napkin you’re fiddling with in your lap.

“Satan preaches giving into your wants. Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins, is it not?”

“I guess.” You shrug, still not looking up at Michael.

“Eat up, then.” He urges, digging into his own food.

You slowly start to put some food on your plate, but not nearly as much as Michael had. You’re almost angry at how good the food is, the forkful of potatoes basically melting in your mouth. Michael watches you, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Good?” He asks, the satisfaction clear on his face when you nod.

“It’s better than what I would normally be eating on a Friday.”

“What do you normally eat on a Friday?”

“Usually ramen.” His silence finally has you looking up, and you only flinch slightly when you meet his chilling blue eyes. “What?”

“What’s ramen?” You bark out a disbelieving laugh, Michael’s eyes lighting up at the sound.

“You’re serious?” He nods. “It’s instant noodles, you microwave them and they come with flavor packets you mix in them.”

“Are they any good?”

“I mean, they’re microwave noodles. It’s kind of self-explanatory.” You watch as Michael nods thoughtfully before going back to his food. “You never had ramen noodles after school or anything?”

Michael’s body tenses, and his knuckles whiten around the fork that he’s gripping.

“I didn’t go to a normal school growing up.” You shoot him a questioning look.

“What, is there some sort of Catholic school for Satanists?”

His fist slams against the surface of the table, making you jump. Your knee smacks against the underside of the hardwood, and you wince slightly. Michael’s shoulders rise as he breathes deeply, and you can almost see him counting to ten in his head as he attempts to calm down.

“ _(Y/N)_. Drop it.” He says sharply, still glaring daggers at his plate.

Michael’s voice somehow sounds deeper than it was seconds ago, taking on an almost growl-like tone. You stare at him, waiting for some sort of continuance, but he refuses to look up. He’s turned the tables on you with the lack of eye contact, and now you can see how annoying it really is. Doesn’t mean you’re going to stop doing it, but you see why he gets so peeved whenever you won’t look at him.

“Alright then, I’ll drop it. Can we talk about our marriage, then?” You mentally pat yourself on the back for not having to force back vomit when you say the word ‘marriage.’

“We certainly can.”

Michael only has to look towards the door for a different staff member to come through the main doors, a stack of paper in her hands. Apparently, the non-perverted wardrobe only extends to you, since this woman is wearing a little black dress that is the epitome of ‘little.’ It barely covers her ass, and her boobs are practically spilling out of the top. You watch her in bewilderment as she sets the paper next to Michael and waltzes back out the way she came, your eyes nearly bugging out of your head. Michael stifles a chuckle, bringing his hand up to his mouth to presumably hide his cheeky smile.

“The uniforms were not my idea, I assure you.”

“Who decided that those were professional?” You ask, still staring in disbelief towards the door.

“The world’s greatest CEOs, business tycoons and politicians.” Michael says simply, and you scoff.

“Straight white men.” You’re not at all shocked at this, even when Michael nods in confirmation.

“Here, this is your copy.” He slides what looks like a contract across the table to you, and you pick it up so you can properly read it.

It’s not really a contract, since you unwillingly signed your name on a marriage contract overseen by the Devil a week ago. Instead, it’s an agreement, a way for Michael to let you know just what’s expected of you, and you’re going to make sure that some things are expected of him as well.

“Can I have a pen?” You ask, holding your hand out expectantly.

“Why would you need a pen?”

“Because I’m almost certain that there’s going to be some items that we’ll have to renegotiate.” You give Michael a saccharine smile, wiggling your fingers tauntingly.

“There’s nothing to negotiate. This is merely an extension of my generosity, (Y/N). I’m allowing you to see what will be expected of you.”

“ _Michael_.” You take a sip of your water, trying to restrain yourself from reaching across the table and strangling him. “How unfair is it that I’m going to have a bunch of rules and expectations, and you’re not?”

“It’s not unfair at all. You’re my wife.”

“Yeah, and you’re my husband.” Yep, nevermind about being able to stop yourself from vomiting in your mouth. “How about this? We can negotiate, and if you find my suggestions too crazy or outlandish then you can veto them. You just have to hear me out, though.”

Michael studies you, pursing his lips as he thinks over what you just said. He finally nods slowly, pulling a pen from one of the inner pockets of his fancy jacket. You happily take it from him, clicking it a few times for maximum annoyance.

“ _Thank you._ ” You start reading through, and almost immediately cross something out.

“Already? What’s the issue?”

“I am not dropping out of school for you!” Michael scowls, pulling out a pen for himself.

“The world’s going to end, I don’t see why you need a degree.”

“Until you actually do bring about the apocalypse, I’m staying in school. I didn’t pay thousands of dollars just to drop out when I’ve gotten this far.” Michael grits his teeth, but crosses out the line anyways.

“ _Fine_.”

You continue to read through the contract, not seeing anything too outlandish. Attend Cooperative meetings, spend the weekends with Michael, not tell anyone that you’re forcibly married to the Antichrist; the usual.

“You’re not getting a key to my apartment.” Michael raises an eyebrow towards you.

“Would you prefer that I break in, instead?” Damn, he’s got you there.

“Alright then, but in return, I want you to stop watching my family and friends.”

“I never said that I was watching them in the first place.”

“Michael, you described in perfect detail to me the exact amount of time it took for my mother to drive from her office to a coffee shop, her order, and how much it cost. Then, you told me about how my best friend went to renew his driver’s license at the DMV but had to turn around because he forgot his proof of address, when he hadn’t even told me that himself. I know you’ve got eyes on everyone in my life, but I want you to stop. I think I’ve proven that I’m not going to snitch, therefore you don’t need to use my loved ones as collateral damage.”

You plead your case, hiding your shock when Michael actually thinks over what you just said. He’s silent for a while, causing the nerves in the pit of your stomach to grow. In an attempt to not verbally freak out on him, you start chugging your water.

“That’s fair. I’ll remove all surveillance from your family and friends. From now on, you are the only one that will be watched by the Cooperative.”

You watch Michael to make sure that he writes down exactly what he promised before writing it on your own contract. The reading continues without too much fuss, only minor notes that change certain dates and times that conflict with events already in your schedule. Reaching the back page, you almost collapse in shock.

“‘Provide you an heir within two years?’ Fuck, no!” Michael can’t hold back his eye roll, displeased that you’re fighting over this.

“I told you the night that we were married that my father expects me to produce an heir sooner rather than later.”

“Do I look like I care? I already gave you my life, Michael. It’s my body, I get to decide when, or if, children come into the picture.” You stare Michael down, silently daring him to try and fight you on this. He returns your glare, but you smirk at him once he sighs.

“Within five years?” He attempts to negotiate.

“Seven.” You don’t want this to be a part of the contract at all, but hopefully (dear God, please) you’ll be long out of this marriage seven years from now.

“Six.” You lean back in your chair, nodding.

“We have a deal.” You cross out the word ‘two’ and replace it with ‘six.’

“Anything else, (Y/N)?” He asks, surprisingly not too mad.

“A couple of little things. One, you don’t invade my privacy while I’m here. I won’t stay locked up in my room the entire weekend, but you need to respect when I want to be alone.” He nods almost immediately, since there’s not really anything to fight about with that. “Two, you only get to call me twice a week.”

“Why only twice?”

“Because I don’t see why you need to call me every single day, sometimes multiple times a day.” You had nearly smashed your phone when the dreaded ‘unknown’ number popped up for the fourth time in a day on Wednesday.

“Maybe I just enjoy talking to my wife and seeing how her day went?”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to learn to savor the two calls you get.” You cross your arms over your chest, making it clear that there’s no wiggle room in this.

“That’s everything?” He asks.

“For now.”

“Very well.” He raises a hand nonchalantly, and the servers descend on the table to pick up the remnants of dinner. “I want you to know that I really do care about you and your feelings. As a way to show you this, I’ve decided that we can end our weekend tomorrow morning.”

Your eyes light up at this as you grin, Michael smiling slightly at the sight.

“Really?”

“Yes. Obviously, this won’t happen every weekend-”

“Yeah, I get that. Thank you so much!”

“The rest of the evening is yours to do with what you please, and after you join me for breakfast tomorrow, you’re free to leave.”

You’ve never been so thankful in your entire life. When Michael makes his way over to your side of the table to slide your chair back out for you, you decide to wrap your arms around him.

“Thank you, Michael. Really.” He’s frozen as you hug him, arms hanging limply at his sides. “You’re supposed to hug me back.”

Very slowly, he returns your embrace. It’s uncharacteristic how gentle he is, almost like he’s worried about crushing you if he hugs you too tightly. Chuckling, you smirk when he finally relaxes into the hug.

“This is…nice.” He decides, and you pull back to look at him.

“What, you’ve never had a hug before?” You’re joking with him, but stop smiling when he shrugs.

“Not since I was very young.” You pull him back towards you, giving him a tight squeeze before finally releasing him.

“Well, now you can look forward to that every weekend.” He smiles softly, and you only flinch slightly when he gives you the trademark kiss on the corner of your mouth.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, (Y/N).”

That night, you lay in the large bed that is now yours on the weekend, staring at the ceiling. You can’t fall asleep, your earlier conversation with Michael replaying in your head. He really hasn’t been hugged in years? It sounds a little ridiculous, and you almost wouldn’t believe it were it not for his mannerisms around people. Michael, even with the tough persona he puts on, really doesn’t know how to act around people. His social skills are lacking, to put it nicely, and it kind of makes sense when you think about how awkward he can be.

You don’t want to feel sympathy for Michael, the man who is convinced that Satan created you to be his bride. You should hate him with every fiber of your being, not just the 90% that it feels like right now. When it comes down to it, though, you realize that he’s kind of in the same boat as you are. He didn’t ask to be the Antichrist, at least you don’t think he did. The Satanic church is the one who orchestrated the wedding and your kidnapping in the first place. Satan is the true dick in this situation, using you and Michael as puppets to accomplish his goals.

But, you remind yourself, Michael had a choice in all of this. He could have commanded his followers not to kidnap you, he could have stopped the wedding and set you free, he could have decided that the ‘marriage’ was all a sham. Instead, he threatens you and your loved ones, forces you to spend weekends with him, argues about a marriage contract with you, and is the driving force behind the scheme to end the world. It’s conflicting and it gives you a headache that persists into your dreams, which are filled with hellfire and a pair of piercing blue eyes.


	5. Pour One Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After lashing out at Michael, you find yourself at the receiving end of his rage. You stand up for yourself and decide to, in the words of Tom Haverford and Donna Meagle, “treat yo’self” to a night out with friends. Alcohol and anger make for great choices, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, just a couple of warnings for this chapter: Alcohol, physical violence, people being mean to each other, curse words, and partying.   
> Feedback is always appreciated, and if you liked this chapter leave a comment down below! Thanks so much for reading!

The cursor on the screen in front of you blinks constantly, silently asking you when you’re going to start typing. This essay isn’t going to write itself, but you can’t seem to muster up enough willpower to actually start putting words onto the paper. In all honesty, it’s hard to work on homework lately. Being the Antichrist’s unwilling wife and knowing of his plans for the apocalypse really makes essays on Plato’s Allegory of the Cave seem trivial, if they weren’t already trivial before this ordeal started. So you stare at the screen, zoning out while occasionally nodding your head so that it seems like you’re invested in the conversation your friends are having.

You jump when a hand touches your shoulder, staring wide-eyed at the classmate sitting next to you. She’s nice and you’ve worked with her on a few projects for this particular class, but you don’t really talk to her when it doesn’t relate to school. She smiles comfortingly at you while the rest of the group stares at you, all with different levels of bewilderment on their faces.

“What?” You ask, trying to make it seem like you weren’t on a completely different wavelength.

“We’re all getting ready to leave and I asked if you were okay. You’ve been really off recently, no offense.” The same classmate, Kate, repeats.

“I’m fine, I’ve just had a lot on my mind recently.”

“I can tell.” She jokes, gesturing to your blank screen. “I’ll send you the notes and what I’m basing my essay off of, if you want?”

“That’d be great, thank you so much.” You reply gratefully.

You hurriedly pack all of your items in your bag, not wanting to hold the group up anymore than you already have. Luckily the parking lot of the cafe you all met up at is fairly small, which means your cars are all parked next to each other. Still, the trauma from what happened that fateful night in the library parking lot has you locking the doors, jamming your seatbelt into place and driving out of the parking lot almost before everybody else has even gotten their cars started.

It’s probably not the best idea to get Chinese takeout when you’re already on a budget and you definitely have leftovers at home, but you figure you can splurge a little bit tonight. The bag that you’re carrying has you tempted to just sit in your car outside of your apartment and eat it all, but that’d be a little difficult since you have no utensils with you. So you make the trek to your apartment, which seems ever-longer with the food basically calling your name.

Unlocking your door and turning on the lights, the first thing that you see is that your cat is once again on the table, a habit that you’ve been trying to curtail for a few days now. The second thing you see, Michael Langdon petting said cat, has all thought of complaining fleeing your head.

“Jesus Christ!” You gasp, throwing your hands up in fright at the surprise intrusion. By some miracle, your food doesn’t go flying everywhere, so you place your things on the table before you do ‘accidentally’ throw them at Michael.

“Kind of the opposite, actually.” Michael smirks, placing his hands behind his back and walking towards you in the way that you hate so much.

“Michael, what the fuck are you doing here?” You huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “It’s Thursday, you’re literally going to see me tomorrow.”

You had actually kind of been expecting for him to show up somewhere in your life. After eating a single bite of toast before rushing out the door after your early weekend last Saturday, you knew he had been pissed. That much had been made clear when he called you Monday, as well as yesterday. A little bit of warning would have been nice, though.

“Well, seeing as how I already used my allotted two calls for the week,” his nose scrunches in distaste at the rule you had set, “I decided that I would drop in and see how my beautiful wife is doing. You never told me you had a cat.” He mentions when the little brat starts rubbing her head against Michael’s hand, begging for attention.

“It never came up in conversation.” You mutter, pushing past him so that you can take back the control of _your_ apartment. “You dropped in, saw I’m fine, got to pet my cat; can you go now?”

Michael pouts teasingly before shrugging.

“Are you really just going to kick me out like that? You’re not a very good hostess, (Y/N).” You squeeze your eyes shut and clench your jaw, patience wearing thin with each second that Michael remains in your home.

Maybe if you had had some forewarning, been given some time to prepare for having to be around him, you wouldn’t be getting so angry. But now, not only has he invaded your home, he refuses to leave as well. Even worse is that stupid _fucking_ smirk that is ever-present on his face. God, if you knew there wouldn’t be any consequences, you’d love to knock that look right off of his face (and maybe a few teeth out, too, although you’re sure that his Antichrist powers would grow them back right away).

“Look. I’m tired, hungry, I have a mountain of homework to do and I still have to finish my laundry. All I want to do is eat my dinner, maybe watch some Netflix while I work on homework, and then go to bed. Please, Michael, just go home.” You plead with him.

“I can help you, you know. Or you could just quit school and mo-”

“What happened to letting me have my alone time?” You question, reminding him of the contract you just went over less than a week ago. The smile fades off of his face as his blue eyes turn to a steely color, and you watch as he clenches and unclenches his fists repeatedly.

“I don’t ask for much from you, (Y/N), just for you to cherish and obey me.” You glower at him when he comes closer, attempting to push him away, but he snatches your wrists easily in one of his large hands. “Do you know how many men– how many _women_ worship my father? How many of them would have thrown themselves at my feet for a chance to be my bride? But no, my father had to make you as my soulmate. You, a stubborn, whiny little _bitch_ who can’t just shut up and be grateful for the position of power you’re currently in.”

You yank your hands out of his grasp, and before you can even process it he slaps you across the face. One of his large rings caught against your lip, and you bring a hand to your face to catch the blood that’s starting to pool on the floor. Poking your tongue out at your lip, you can feel how it’s already starting to swell from the force of Michael’s hit. The man in question holds his hands up by his head, eyes wide as he pants loudly. He repeatedly shakes his head, like he’s trying to convince both you and him that he didn’t mean to hit you.

“(Y/N)-” He’s silenced when you spit at him. It lands on his cheek, and you watch with eyes blazing as the mixture of saliva and blood trails down his face.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment.” You don’t look him in the eyes, instead choosing to focus on the blood you’re cupping in your hands. When he doesn’t move, you start to yell. “Leave! I swear to God, if you don’t leave, I’ll get my landlord up here and he’ll haul your ass out!”

The door never opens, but when you look up again he’s disappeared. You’re still beyond pissed, but the adrenaline is wearing off and the throbbing in your lip is starting to become more prominent. Stumbling off to the bathroom, you get a washcloth and hold it to your lip to stop the bleeding. Somehow the cut’s not deep, it just landed in an area that produces a lot of blood. You get cleaned up fairly quickly, and within twenty minutes you’re laying on the couch with an ice pack pressed to your lip. The cat sits on your lap, kneading your thighs with her little paws.

“Next time he shows up here, claw his eyes out, okay?” You request. She blinks her large eyes at you once before yawning and rubbing her nose. “Thanks.”

Your phone chimes with a text message that you almost ignore, thinking that it’s Michael. When the name on the text isn’t just the devil emoji that you use for him and is, instead, the name of your best friend, you unlock your phone.

_“Hey girl! Thirsty Thursday tonight @ Stadium House, you in?”_

Stadium House, the frat house closest to the campus’ football stadium (nobody ever said frat boys were good at naming things), offers what is arguably the best Thirsty Thursday you’ve ever experienced. Frat parties aren’t normally something you enjoy going to, choosing instead to do your social drinking at friends’ houses. Even though they’re not normally your scene, you still find yourself mulling over the idea. It’s been a while since you even drank, let alone went out with your friends and drank. Besides, after the hellish past few weeks, partying doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

_“Sure, we riding together?”_ Within seconds, she’s responded.

_“OMG YAY REALLY??? Yeah we’re getting a Lyft. Wanna come over to mine and get ready/pregame?”_

_“Be over in 10.”_ You reply.

Since you both live in the same building, all you had to do is get everything together and take the elevator to her floor. The cat, although not pleased that you’re standing, quickly settles down again in your spot as you go to put the ice pack back in the freezer. As you gather the ‘essentials’ for a night out, you realize that this is the first time you’ve been genuinely excited for something since the day you were kidnapped. Locking your door behind you, you head out with a purpose: to get fucked up. Classily fucked up, but still fucked up.

* * *

Stadium House is just like you remember it from the last party you attended, which would have been almost a year ago. It’s insanely loud, with enough bass to make your teeth shake. There’s an insane amount of people that you’re sure violates some sort of fire code, none of the furniture matches, and there’s enough booze to give the entire school alcohol poisoning.You’re already mildly buzzed, the alcohol that you pregamed making you feel a good kind of fuzzy. Making your way into the kitchen to grab a beer takes twice the time that it normally would since inebriated-you likes to hug everyone that you see.

“(Y/N)!” A voice shouts. You turn around to see Kate waving at you, beckoning you towards her. “Hey! Thought you didn’t come to these types of parties?”

“Normally I don’t, but tonight I decided to.”

“God, what happened to your lip? Did somebody punch you?” You almost forgot about the cut on your face, having covered it with enough makeup to hide the bruising and swelling.

“Oh, I tripped and busted my face against the stairs earlier today.” Kate grimaces, but obviously believes it.

“Well hopefully that means you won’t bust your face while you’re drunk. Anyways, you wanna play pong with me? I need a partner.” You shrug before nodding, letting her take your hand and lead you to the living room.

All of the couches are pushed up against the walls, allowing people to sit and catch their breaths. There’s a long table set up in the middle of the room, the classic red cups creating pyramids on each side.

“Katie, you found someone!” Kate giggles and blushes when a guy slings his arm around before kissing her cheek.

“(Y/N), this is my boyfriend, Brennan. Brennan, this is (Y/N).” You both wave at each other awkwardly. “Oh my God B, do you know who (Y/N) would be absolutely great with? Lucas!”

Brennan chuckles at the look on your face.

“Kate likes to play matchmaker when she’s drunk.” He explains. “Go play then, everyone’s waiting on you.”

Kate pouts before kissing Brennan and jogging around to the side of the table that you’ve already migrated towards. Picking up a Solo cup, you glance inside to see what the poison of choice is tonight. One sniff of the clear liquid tells you that it’s vodka, and definitely not the good kind. Kate fakes a gag when you hold the cup under her nose, making you giggle.

“Guess we’ll have to play extra good, then.”

Both teams suck, but you somehow manage to eke out the win. Even with the win, you still had to down an ungodly amount of vodka. Couple that with the two beers you’ve had since starting the game, and you’re definitely feeling the effects. Everything has you laughing, from the posters on the wall and your opponents’ jokes to the outfits of some of the women here and how they all line the walls, looking for their prey. You and Kate had almost collapsed against each other when the familiar chorus of _‘oh fuck, shit, BITCH’_ coursed through the entirety of the frat house. Another side effect of being drunk is just how loud you are. You know that you’re nearly yelling whenever you open your mouth, but you’ll be damned if people don’t hear what you have to say.

After the game is over, you end up heading outside to get some fresh air. A good number of people have the same idea as you, standing together in small groups. Pushing past a couple making out, you lean against the wall and pull your phone out of your back pocket. There’s a few notifications from various social medias, mainly your friends tagging you in their stories. Unfortunately, there’s also a text from Michael that simply reads _‘I’m sorry.’_ The sensible part of you that remains sober tells you to not do what you’re thinking of, but since that part of you is stupid, you click on Michael’s contact anyways. It only rings twice before he picks up the phone, which makes you roll your eyes.

“Hey, are you okay? I’m so sorry about what happened earlier, I shouldn’t have done that and I’ll never do anything like that again.” You hear the words that he’s saying, but they don’t actually register with you while you wait to finally speak.

“Y’know, you’re the–the biggest jerk I’ve ever met!” You huff, sitting down on top of the cool grass.

“I know, and I deserve th-”

“No no no, mister, you listen to ME! All my friends’ boyfriends are so _fucking_ nice, and they care about their girlfriends, and they _certainly_ didn’t kidnap them. One of my friends even told me there’s a guy she knows that’d be–that’d be perfect for me!” You pause to take a sip of the beer in your hand. “But I had to say no, all because I’m _married_ to the fucking Ant-Anti-crust!”

Michael’s silent while you ramble on, waiting patiently for you to finish. You snicker at your oh-so-clever wordplay, repeating ‘Anti-crust’ quietly to yourself.

“(Y/N)…are you drunk?” You sigh, humming a tune that you’re not quite sure of while you look up at the sky.

“A little bit, yeah.”

“Stay where you are, I’m going to come and get you. And don’t hang up the phone!”

“You’re so _lame_ , Michael.” You groan loudly.

“I know I am, so incredibly lame.” He agrees with you.

“Whatever, I gotta tell my friends I’m leaving, ‘else they’ll think I got kidnapped…again.” Stumbling to your feet, you squint your eyes to spot your friends. Sure enough, the three of them are all sitting on the couch under the large oak tree. _What is it with frat guys leaving couches outside? Is that like a requirement for frats?_

“Why is there a couch outside?” Michael asks incredulously, and you clap a hand over your mouth when you realize that you said that out loud.

“Oops.” Your friends all wave to you, and you fall sideways on top of their laps. “H-hey guys!”

“(Y/N), where the hell did you go?”

“Oh, I kicked ASS at pong. Did you know that I’m good at pong? ‘Cuz I didn’t know I was good at pong.” Your mumble, reaching a hand up to stroke your friend’s cheek. “Anyways, I gotta go. My _husband_ is gonna pick me up.”

You can hear Michael gasp as your friends all laugh and giggle.

“Fuck off, you don’t have a husband!” You’re about to argue before you remember that you totally should not have said that.

“You’re right, I don’t have a husband.” You agree, sobering up long enough to panic before realizing that they’re just going to think you’re joking. “Anyways, my…friend Michael is gonna pick me up.”

“(Y/N)’s gonna get _DICK_ tonight!” She yells, making them all cheer loudly.

Before you can argue, a sleek black sports car pulls up. Michael doesn’t even have to unroll the windows for you to know that it’s him; nobody else would be driving around in a college neighborhood with a car like that. Your friends help push you up, and you grab all of your stuff from where you threw it on the ground. Your goodbyes are all long and exaggerated, all of them hugging you and kissing your cheeks before letting you leave.

You throw open the car door dramatically, sliding not-so-gracefully inside. Michael stares at you, and if you were more sober you’d try and attempt to figure out what he’s thinking. Instead you give him a wide smile, waving excitedly while you try to buckle up.

“Here, let me help you.” He says finally, easily buckling you up.

“Thank youuuuuu!” You sing out, leaning back against the cool leather.

“I, uh, brought you a water.” He hands you a bottle of water, making you gasp excitedly.

“How did you know I was thirsty! You’re the _best_ , Mikey!” You open the bottle easily and down half the bottle in one go.

“Don’t call me that.” He’s obviously not too impressed with having to pick you up, but whatever.

“But-but I like calling you Mikey! It’s my nickname for you! Isn’t that what married couples do? They have nicknames for each other!” You argue while Michael maneuvers through the deserted streets.

He decides that keeping silent is the best course of action, which makes you pout. There’s no music on, and the only sound you can hear is the engine purring. His eyes are focused on the road ahead, so you decide to creep your hand up to touch his hair, which is something you’ve always wanted to do. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, and you’re pretty sure he thinks you’re going to hit him. He flinches when your hand lands in his hair, sending you into another round of giggles while you feel his golden curls.

“So soft.” You mutter to yourself, running your hand through his hair. “Mikey, I’m gonna need you to drop your haircare routine.”

“Tomorrow.”

“We’re at my apartment! How do you know where I live?”

“I was here four hours ago.” You hum, nodding.

“Riiiiiight.” You basically fling yourself out of the car, bouncing on your heels while you wait for Michael to catch up to you.

He politely slides his arm around yours, keeping you steady while you both make your way to your apartment. Standing still in the elevator makes you realize just how tired you are and you yawn repeatedly and rub your eyes, undoubtedly smudging your eye makeup.

“Drink the rest of your water, please.” Michael requests, gesturing to the near-empty bottle you’re still holding.

You do as he says, letting him guide you to your apartment door. He opens it without using a key, and you look at him with wide eyes.

“Oh no, did I leave the door unlocked?”

“No (Y/N), I unlocked it with my magic.”

“That’s right, I forgot about that! That’s how you left so quickly after you slapped the shit outta me.” Michael winces at your words, but you ignore him and walk into the apartment. “Hi, kitty kitty!” You greet the cat, who doesn’t even bother to wake up.

“Go get some pajamas on, I want to make sure you make it to bed alright before I leave.” You glare at him, but do as he says. When the cat hears his voice, she eagerly jumps up and hops off of the couch, padding towards him and meowing. You stop at the sight, mouth hanging open while he crouches down to pet the cat.

“What the fuck?” You whisper, and Michael has to stifle a laugh when tears start to fill your eyes. “You little traitor.”

Michael remains on the floor while you get changed, giving his attention to the small cat. When it’s been a couple of minutes with no sign of you, he begins to get a little concerned. What trouble can a drunk person get up to when they’re just getting changed. Michael stands up, cautiously making his way to your bedroom. If you are still changing he really doesn’t want to walk in on you, knowing that there will be absolute hell to pay. His concerns are instantly wiped away when he sees you laying in your bed, eyes already closed.

“(Y/N).” Michael whispers, shaking your shoulder. You groan and try to push him away. “(Y/N), you still have makeup on.”

He’s not sure you string together a full sentence, but he does make out the words ‘makeup wipes’ and ‘bathroom,’ which is all that he needs. Thankfully you left the package of makeup wipes on the counter before you left for the evening. Pulling one out of the package, he walks back into your room and crouches next to you. Your nose crinkles at the feeling of the cool cloth against your skin, and your eyes flutter open before closing so he can take your eye makeup off. When he reaches your bottom lip and chin, he frowns.

“I am so sorry.” He apologizes before he starts cleaning your lipstick off. You both know that he’s not just apologizing for the hiss of pain that escapes your mouth.

“You’re so mean, you know that?” You mumble, licking your chapped lips while Michael examines the damage.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did that. I’ve never hit anyone before.” He’s telling the truth; he’s murdered people and animals before, obliterated people’s souls, but he’s never slapped anyone. If there’s one useful thing his grandma taught him while growing up, it’s that you never hit a woman.

“You did it because you’re mean.”

“I promise you, (Y/N), that I’ll never lay a hand on you like that again.” You look at him from under your lashes, causing his heart to clench painfully.

“I’ll hold you to that.” Your eyes close again, and Michael gets up to throw the makeup wipe away.

When he comes back into your room, you’re already asleep. Michael smiles at the small snores that escape you and how absolutely comfy you look, slipping out to grab you some water and pain meds for the morning. Placing it on your bedside table, he spares one last glance at you before going to leave, petting the cat once more and disappearing again.


	6. Where Angels Fear to Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the morning comes, so does regret. Both you and Michael must deal with the choices that were made last night, choices that could either make or break Satan’s “plan” for his son and his son’s bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, kudos and comments would be very much appreciated!

For a brief moment when you first wake up, it doesn’t feel like you’re hungover. Although you’re tired, you’re not bolting out of bed to throw up. That blissful feeling lasts for a total of ten seconds, the hangover waiting until the sunlight hits your eyes to fully hit you. And boy, does it hit you.

“Oh, God no.” You groan, covering your face with your pillow in an attempt to alleviate some of the throbbing in your head.

You’re not too terribly nauseous, but you’re still not going to be eating a three-course meal right away. Every time you try to take the pillow off of your face, your head spins. You haven’t been this hungover in a long time, and it can only be one thing causing your pain.

“The fucking vodka.” You realize, sighing and rolling onto your stomach so you don’t have to put in the effort to hold the pillow up.

Although you’ve had vodka before, it was only a shot or two at a time, never as much as you had during your pong victory last night. It should have been enough of a warning when it smelled like gasoline, but drunk (Y/N) likes to disregard clear signs of danger. When you finally feel able to lift your head from the pillow, you thank your lucky stars that a bottle of water and some ibuprofen sits on your bedside table. Remembering how you ended up back at your apartment, you wrinkle your nose in a mixture of disdain and embarrassment.

You take the medicine quickly, too hungover to be able to think clearly about the consequences of last night’s actions. Maybe you were better off with the pain of a headache, considering that each drunk memory is even worse than the one before it.

“Did I seriously pet his hair?” You mumble, sitting up against the headboard and burying your face in your hands. Speak of the devil (or the devil’s son), your phone starts ringing the oh-so familiar ringtone. You don’t even have to look at the caller ID to know that it’s Michael; no one else that you know would call you, especially on a Friday morning. “Hi, Michael.”

“(Y/N), good morning.” He greets, sounding mildly shocked that you’re awake and functioning. You’re a little shocked too, honestly. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck, but the truck was only going like five miles an hour.” Michael chuckles at your colorful description of how you feel. “Thanks for coming to pick me up last night, by the way. I don’t even know why I called you.”

“You called me to berate me on my behavior. You also lamented the fact that you’re married to, and I quote, ‘the fucking Anti-crust.’” You grimace, shaking your head.

“Oh no, I am  _so_ sorry.”

“No, I deserved it. Plus, you made some good points, and I’m glad you called me instead of deciding to drive yourself home.” A smile tugs onto your face at the concern Michael has for you, quickly being wiped off when the reminder of his actions yesterday sends a bolt of pain through your lip.

“We wouldn’t have driven anyways, we took a Lyft there.” You explain, pulling at a loose string on your blanket while you wait for Michael to speak.

“(Y/N),” he says after a silence long enough to make you start to wonder if he had hung up, “can I ask you a question?”

“I know what you’re getting after, and I’m sorry for referring to you as my husband when I was in front of my friends last night. In my defense, we were all really drunk and they all thought I was just being a smartass. If you’re going to punish anyone, punish me and not them.” You interject, fully taking responsibility for your slip of the tongue that gave both of you mini heart attacks.

“Huh? No, don’t worry about that. Trust me, I know that it was just a joke to them.”

“Really? Okay then, ask me your question.” Another long silence follows, one that has you huffing in annoyance. You could easily be sleeping off your headache right now, if it weren’t for Michael being dramatic on the other end of the call.

“Would you…if you would allow me to, would you like to go on a date today? With me?” It’s your turn to initiate a long silence.

The all-powerful Antichrist, who you’ve seen command congregations of ravenous followers with a mere glance and force you to give yourself to him, who holds the most frightening amount of power you’re sure anyone on Earth has ever possessed, is nervous about asking you out on a date? You’re startled out of your inner monologue by Michael calling your name through the phone.

“What?”

“Well, I asked you if you-”

“I know. I guess I was just caught off-guard. I mean, aren’t you supposed to ask me on a date before you marry me?” You ask, smiling wryly.

“I think you and I can both agree that our union is nothing if not unconventional.”

“Hmm. Say I did agree to go on a date with you. What would we do?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ve never been on a date before and this was a very spur-of-the-moment decision.” Michael admits.

“Awww, how cute!” You tease, giggling when you hear him scoff.

“I’m the Antichrist (Y/N), and though I’ve been described as many things, ‘cute’ is not one of them.” He notes. It’s quiet for a moment while you consider your options, eventually deciding ‘what the hell?’

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Michael, I’ll go on a date with you.”

“We-I-uh-great.” He stutters out. “Tonight, then? I’m sure you have classes and such today, and I’d hate to force you to do something when you’re already forced to spend the weekend with me.”

You stretch the arm that’s not holding your phone above your head, glancing over at the clock to see the time.

“I actually don’t have class today. Wanna meet me at my place at eleven?” You can tell he’s shocked at your response, and you’re a little shocked too. You’re not sure if you want to confront him while sober about how he smacked you, or if his whole ‘poor, socially-stunted Antichrist’ act actually was an act.

“That would work for me.”

“Cool! I’m driving though, so you’re gonna have to do your teleporting thing.”

“Why do you get to drive?”

“Because you’re the most boring driver ever. Seriously, you don’t even listen to music?”

“It’s distracting! I like the quiet, it allows me to think.” Michael argues.

“Car rides are for bumping your favorite music, not sitting in silence, but I digress. Does eleven work for you or not, golden boy?” The ‘golden boy’ nickname is one you’re quite proud of, seeing as it’s one of the only productive things you thought of while giggling to yourself in Michael’s car last night.

“Yes, eleven works. I’ll see you then.”

“See you in a bit!” You chirp, hanging up your phone and sitting up. Suddenly, you’re aware of your devastating mistake: you have to actually get your hungover ass out of bed and dressed within an hour.

It’s definitely not your finest date outfit, but considering the man has seen you bloody and scared out of your mind, you’re not too worried about impressing him. Besides, the point of a date is to get to know a person and make them want to see you again. You’re already stuck with Michael for life, so one half of your ‘mission’ is basically completed. You rush to the door when you hear him knock, peeking through the peephole before you unlock it fully. It’s a little infuriating just how perfect Michael always looks; he seriously could have walked right off of a runway during Fashion Week. His regular attire could put some movie stars to shame, so needless to say he makes you feel extremely underdressed. Nevertheless, he still smiles the moment he sees you.

“Hi, (Y/N).” He greets, stepping into your apartment. “I, uh, got you some flowers. I know that’s what you’re supposed to give a girl before a date.” He produces a bouquet of your favorite flowers from behind his back, making your face red.

“Did you read my mind to find out my favorite flowers?” You tease, taking the bouquet from him and turning to find something to put them in.

“No, actually. You had told my Ms. Mead that these were your favorites once.” Now that you think about it, you had told Ms. Mead that; they had been on sale at the market you both frequented, and you had made a note that you had to buy them when she noticed them in your basket. “Are you feeling any better?”

“My head still hurts, but other than that I’m fine. I usually only throw up after I drink hard liquor.” There’s no vases in your kitchen, so you just grab an old water bottle and fill it up to place the flowers in.

“If you’d like, I can take your pain away?”

“You already left the painkillers out on my nightstand, pretty sure if I take anymore that’s considered drug abuse.”

“Not like that. I can…use my powers, and take your pain away. Only if you consent, of course. I told you after the wedding that I wouldn’t use magic on you without your permission, and I intend to keep that promise.” This side of Michael, the one who actually cares and shows human emotions, is easily your favorite.

“You can do that?” He nods.

“I could heal your lip, too.” Before either of you can really process it, his hand gently cups your chin, thumb lightly running across the scabbed-over cut.

“We’re going to have to talk about this, you know.” You mutter, Michael’s thumb moving away so that he doesn’t accidentally slip it into your mouth.

“Let me heal you, and then we can?” He proposes.

“Yeah, okay.” You lead him over to the couch, sitting and facing him. “So how does this work? Do you have to perform some sort of spell?”

Michael chuckles, shaking his head. It startles you to realize you’ve picked up on some of his idiosyncrasies, knowing that playing with the large rings decorating his fingers means that he’s nervous.

“No, you just need to trust me.” You hesitate for a moment before nodding your head slightly.

Michael places both of his large hands on either side of your face, your breathing hitching at the close contact. You watch as his eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he move, but you can feel the exact moment that his magic hits you. The pain in your head disappears slowly, but when it’s gone, it’s completely gone. You lip pulses in pain as the skin starts to rapidly stitch itself back together, speeding up the healing process by weeks. After Michael lets go of your face, you snatch your phone up and glance at the black screen. You’re completely healed, without even a scar to show for last night’s events.

“Who would have thought the Antichrist could use his powers to fix things instead of break them?” Michael rolls his eyes, studying your face to make sure your split lip is healed to his liking.

“(Y/N), I do want to apologize to you now that you’re sober. I wasn’t lying when I said I had never hit anyone before. I’ve done many, many terrible things in my life, but my terror of a grandmother taught me one useful thing, and it’s that you never lay your hands on a woman.”

“So why me, then? What changed last night to make you want to smack me?”

“I…I wish I had an answer that would satisfy you, but the truth is that I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” You scoff, crossing your arms across your chest and laughing. “What a cop out. ‘I don’t know,’” you mock, “is one of the most blatant lies in the world. You do know, you either don’t want to admit it or you haven’t thought hard enough about it.”

Michael huffs loudly, running a hand through his hair as he stares up at the ceiling.

“I’ve never met anyone like you before. All my life, people have either been terrified of me or they’ve worshipped me. You’re neither of those types. You challenge me, and constantly let me know that I’m not as special as my followers have led me to believe. You’re my equal, which is exactly what my father created you to be. I obviously have not handled this realization well, and I lashed out when you snapped at me.”

“Michael, you need to promise me that you’ll never touch me like that again. I don’t care what we are, or what your father wants us to be; you smack me again and I promise you that I’ll ruin your life.” You’re not quite sure how you’d ruin his life, but you both know that this is a threat you’ll follow through on.

“I promise you, (Y/N). I’m not someone who regrets his actions very often, but I regretted hurting you the second my hand left my side.”

“I believe you.” You say timidly, placing a lot of trust in his word. Although you’re not sure if this is the right decision, it’s one that you’ll have to make if this ‘marriage’ is going to work.

“Thank you.” Michael smiles. “Shall we go, then?”

“Where are we going?” You ask, taking his extended hand and letting him help you up.

“Well, I did tell you that I’ve never exactly been on a date before.” Michael says sheepishly. “What do you normally do on a date?”

“There’s a few different things that we could do.” You say, thinking for a moment. “Michael, do you like ice cream?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re walking through a small park across the street from your favorite ice cream shop with Michael, your hands subtly brushing against each other. As it turns out, he does like ice cream, and was more than pleased when you had suggested it. What he wasn’t pleased with was your taste in music on the drive over, begging you to unlock your phone so he could pick a new song. You had tortured him a little bit before obliging, only to learn that Michael actually likes some good music. His ice cream choice isn’t too bad, either: mint chocolate chip in a dish. It’s not something you’d have normally thought of getting, but it’s a flavor that seems to match Michael perfectly.

He watches while you talk about just how much precision and planning went into taking the first picture of the black hole, stopping every so often to have some of your own ice cream (chocolate chip cookie dough on a cone). You had assumed that he would be bored by your newest fascination, but instead he listens intently, smiling at how much you care about this subject.

“I never would have thought you’d be interested in space.” Michael notes.

“I’ve always loved space; when I was younger I wanted to be an astronaut.”

“Why?”

“There’s so much out there that we haven’t explored. It’s entirely likely that there is life on other planets. While we know that black holes swallow matter, we don’t know what happens to it or where it goes. There’s a law that matter can neither be created nor destroyed, so either black holes bend the laws of science or that matter goes somewhere else. It’s extremely plausible that there could be other dimensions. Plus, I really like the night sky.”

“Oh?”

“It’s…calming, in a way. It makes me feel so small, looking up at all of the different stars, yet I also feel connected to so much. Everybody sees the same sky at the same time, and it’s interesting to know that we’re seeing the light of stars that have died thousands of years ago. I could look at the constellations for hours.”

You turn around when Michael stops, facing him in confusion. You almost think he’s tripped, since he keeps looking down at his shoe, but there’s nothing there to have made it the focus of his attention. When he looks up at you, there’s a strange look in his eye. It’s not scary or anything, it’s just one that you haven’t seen Michael wear before. It’s a mixture of pain and confusion, as if he’s deciding to do something that could easily have dire consequences.

“Why’d you stop?” You ask, smiling at him reassuringly. You’re actually rather enjoying this date, and his company.

“I-uh–” Michael stutters before suddenly leaning forward and kissing you.

Your eyes widen in shock, arms at your sides as you’re momentarily stunned at this turn of events. Quickly, you decide that you actually like what’s occurring right now, closing your eyes and wrapping your arm that’s not holding anything around him. For someone who’s never been on a date before, Michael’s a pretty good kisser. His full lips work easily against yours, and you can still taste the mint on his lips. He’s a little too hesitant with his kissing, but that’s something that can be easily rectified.

It doesn’t last very long at all, Michael pulling away before you can ‘show him’ how to make out. The kiss is short and sweet, two things that you would not normally associate with Michael Langdon. His face is flushed and he’s breathing heavily, looking at you to make sure he didn’t screw everything up.

“How long have you been wanting to do that?” You ask, smirking as he touches his lips.

“A week or so.” He answers.

You smile at his expression, one that’s eager to kiss you again while still being hesitant towards what you’re presuming is how you’ll react. You press your lips to his again, making Michael smile widely after you’ve finished.

“You know what you’re doing, I’ll give you that.” Since today is, apparently, about being bold, you take his hand in yours when you start walking again. With hands clasped tightly and ice cream all but forgotten about, your conversations and chaste kisses continue long into your walk.


	7. Naked & Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally (unwillingly, like everything else that’s happened to you since that night in the parking lot) meet your father-in-law in what is arguably some of the weirdest circumstances you’ve ever dealt with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, Claire finally updated Mad Love? Hell must’ve frozen over and pigs are surely flying! Feedback is always appreciated, and I’d love if you left me a comment or kudos.

Every single thing about Michael Langdon and the life that he lives is the epitome of luxury, so it comes as no surprise that the en suite bathroom that has been deemed yours is just as opulent as everything else you’ve seen. After an incredibly long week that’s seemed to stretch for months, the large, ornate bathtub is the only thing on your mind. After Michael cut dinner short tonight, an issue with the Cooperative requiring his attention, you found yourself sitting on your bed and trying to figure out what to do with an unexpected free evening. Your head is still spinning after everything that’s happened in the past couple of days, and a long bath is where you tend to do your best thinking and decompressing. Today, especially, there’s a lot to think about. 

The sound of rushing water fills the bathroom and echoes off of the large granite walls (who has  _ granite  _ walls?). Sticking your hand under the steady stream, you fiddle with the knob for a few moments before finding your ideal temperature. The bathtub starts to fill quickly, and you pour a generous amount of some fragrant lavender bubble bath into the water. You sit back on the balls of your feet, waiting for the bath to fill to your desired depth before rushing to turn it off. Glancing one last time to make sure you remembered to lock the door, you yank your clothes off of your body before sinking into the bath. 

You sigh audibly once the hot water covers your body, the heat immediately going to work at relaxing your muscles. Relaxing against the back of the porcelain tub, you turn your phone on to play some music and stare up at the ceiling. There’s a chandelier, because of course there is. Although the signature black is prevalent throughout the room, you’re pleased to see some accents of purple and silver as well. Your thoughts, which can never just remain on one topic for an extended period of time, quickly shift to what’s happened yesterday and today. 

The major thing is, of course, the kiss that you shared with Michael mere hours ago. More specifically, why the hell did you reciprocate the kiss? He certainly didn’t use his magic on you; even if you didn’t know what magic felt like when it was used on you now, the stern warning that you would beat his ass scared him enough to not even consider it. But, it’s not as if you  _ like  _ him. At best, you’re starting to tolerate him. That doesn’t mean you’ve ever thought about kissing him before, no matter how soft his lips actually are.

Maybe it was a lapse in judgement? Or maybe drunk (Y/N) was still lurking in the darkest recesses of your mind, just waiting for a moment to come out and screw everything up. A single kiss does not equal attraction of any kind. Michael’s arrogant, nosy, doesn’t understand boundaries, is the literal Antichrist and, to top it off, kidnapped you to be his unwilling bride. But at the same time, he obviously didn’t have a very loving or normal childhood, and he’s been used as a puppet by so many: Ms. Mead, the Satanists, his father. You don’t empathize with him, or even excuse his actions due to what he’s gone through. You do, however, understand why he acts the way that he does; maybe that makes all the difference. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, but it’s obvious that you did. One moment, you’re relaxing in a bathtub and pondering how weird your life has gotten, and then you blink and you’re here. Well, wherever ‘here’ is. Everything’s dark, as if you’re standing outside in an empty field with no sign of stars, the moon, or any lights. Your eyes take a minute to adjust, but even then you’re still unable to see any sign of life. Although you can’t see anything, you can  _ feel  _ that something, or someone, is here with you. 

The hair on your arms prickles, goosebumps rising as you feel a pair of piercing eyes watching you. The worst part, though, is that you can’t tell which direction they’re looking at you from. Just when you turn around to try and catch them, the feeling’s from behind you. It’s everywhere: Your back, your arms, your side, your face. At times it feels like you’re nose to nose with this entity, even though there’s nothing there. Your breathing picks up, nervously coming out in visible puffs as you wrap your arms around yourself. Looking down suddenly, you’re grateful that you’re not still naked in this dream (or vision, or premonition). You’re wearing the same clothes that you were wearing earlier today, almost as if you had dressed yourself while asleep. 

As far as you can tell, you’re alone. That is, until you’re not. You spin around in a slow circle one last time, shrieking loudly when you come face to face with a man. A small smile has his pink lips upturned, showing his amusement at your fear. He’s tall, tall enough that his neck is bent in order to look at you. His unruly black hair somehow manages to look like he styled it that way, and his hazel eyes seem to flicker and crackle with sparks. You stumble backwards, desperate to put some space between you and this stranger. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, reminding you of how Michael looks when he smells your fear in the air. 

“Who are you?” Your voice, although you attempt to sound strong, comes out shaky and hesitant. 

“I am known by many different names, and I possess many different faces.” He quips, taking one long step closer to you. “Mmm, but of course you would not recognize me as I am now, right, sweet (Y/N)?”

“How do you know my name?” 

He doesn’t answer. In a split second, he’s changed from the man with the mop of black hair to a tall man with brown hair and brown eyes, a trimmed beard on his face. If it weren’t for the same sparks in his eyes, you would have thought it was a completely different person.

“Does this not work for you, either?” His form changes again, to that of a teenage boy in an ill-fitting sweater and ratty jeans. His blond hair hasn’t been combed in a while, but he has the same brown eyes as that of the man before him. 

“Stop doing this!” You snap, half-tempted to smack him.

“Oh, but I think you will quite enjoy this next form.” Suddenly, Michael stands before you. It looks just like the Michael you know, except for those eyes. Michael’s eyes, the  _ real  _ Michael’s eyes, lack that odd flame in them that this person has. 

“Change back.” You say through gritted teeth. You’re not sure why the sight of him makes you feel so odd, but it does. 

“You are no fun at all.” He sighs, reverting back to the original form that you first saw him in.

“I’m going to ask you this one more time. Who. Are. You?” Your hands are balled into fists at your sides, and you can feel your nails digging into the calloused flesh there. 

“‘The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.’” He quips. It sounds familiar, what he’s saying, but you have no clue where you would have heard something like this before. “Why did you react the way that you did when I assumed the image of my son?”

“Your son? Who’s your…” You trail off upon realizing the only person that he could possibly be referring to as his son. He smirks, knowing that you’re hoping with every fiber of your being that he’s not who you think he is. 

“Such a  _ smart  _ woman you are, (Y/N).” His voice drips with the same saccharine that tempted Eve when she stood at that lonely tree in the Garden of Eden, listening to the lies of the serpent as he whispered in her ear that the Forbidden Fruit would provide her the same knowledge that God himself possessed. “Surely you have heard some of my names. Beelzebub, Mephistopheles, Lucifer--” he cuts himself off, and the grin that he shoots your way has you shuddering at the mere sight of it, “-- _ Satan _ .”

“You can’t be, I--how am I here?” There’s so much about this situation that’s wrong, but for some reason your mind latches onto the sheer absurdity of waking up in an actual hellscape. 

“My dear, I’m the Devil. A mere parlor trick is all it took to get you into my domain.” He spreads his arms wide, proud of the desolate landscape that stretches ahead for miles and miles. 

“I’m not your ‘dear.’” You retort, eyes widening when you realize that you just sassed Satan himself. Instead of stealing your soul and banishing you to the Ninth Circle of Hell, which is what you’re expecting, he stares at you for a moment before laughing loudly. 

“See, everytime I think that I chose the wrong mortal to be my son’s companion, you prove to me that I made the correct choice.” He seems proud of himself, standing tall and with his chest out. 

“You ruined my life with your ‘choice.’”

Satan’s face falls, and he takes another step closer to you. “I have given you the opportunity to be great!” 

“You stole my free will!”

“Thanks to me, you will rule the New World side-by-side with Michael. You are the missing link to bring about our plans for the Apocalypse. My son, as I am sure you have noticed, is all too human. I blame his mother; gentle, impassioned Vivien did not pass many things down to Michael, but she did manage to give the boy an overly caring heart. He needs someone to fulfill his heart’s desires, and who better than the one who was handpicked for him?”

“The Apocalypse,” you scoff, choosing to ignore the last part of his spiel for now as you look the Devil right in the eyes. “Why do you even want to bring about the Apocalypse? Once everyone’s dead, there’s no more new souls for you to torture.” 

“Hell is not just made up of the souls of the damned, (Y/N). Legions of demons, swarms of locusts and scorpions, plagues that mankind has long since forgotten. My domain shall no longer be restricted just to Hell. Instead, Hell, and all of her beasts, will wreak havoc upon the Earth.”

“You want to kill billions of people,  _ just  _ so that you and your buddies can get your jollies?” 

“Chaos and disorder are what keeps the world running. I am merely trying to make sure that only those who can survive the most chaotic of situations will populate the New World. Which, might I remind you, you shall have a hand in ruling.” 

“I don’t want your fucking crown or kingdom.”

You go to whirl around, hoping that there will be some door that you missed when you first woke up here, but you’re faced again with Satan. When you try to back away from him, a ring of flames encircles both of you, effectively trapping you with him. He snatches your wrist, and your eyes widen at the sharp talons digging into your skin. 

“Did your mother never teach you that gratitude is a virtue?” His voice comes out as a thunder, shaking the very ground that you stand on. 

You really should tone down the sass and backtalk, but you can’t help it when a man as arrogant as any you’ve ever met stands mere inches away. “That’s really rich, coming from the literal  _ Devil _ .”

“You foolish, insolent little girl. You have no idea what I am capable of.” 

Your heart pounds in your chest as he loosens his grip on your wrist, allowing you to snatch your extremity back from him. You rub the skin, visibly marked and bleeding in areas where the talons pierced through, as gently as possible while trying to gain some feeling back into your tingling hand. 

“I  _ embody  _ the seven deadly sins,” he continues. “I can become your greatest desire…” 

You haven’t been looking at him while attending to your wrist, but your movements stop at the sudden change of voice when he reaches the end of his sentence. Moving your eyes slowly upwards, you let out a harsh breath when you’re greeted with Michael’s smirking face. The Michael doppelganger slowly walks towards you, lifting a chilly hand up to your face and caressing your cheek. 

“Don’t touch me.” You mutter, unable to look away from his cerulean eyes. 

“C’mon, (Y/N),” even his mocking tone sounds just like the Michael that you know, “don’t play coy with me. I can see into the deepest parts of your soul. That purity that you try so furiously to embody, tinted black in some areas. You desire me, even though you hate to admit it.”

“I don’t.”

“ _ Liar _ .” He whispers, breath ghosting across your face while he moves even closer to yours. “The very essence of your being calls out for me, just as I call out for you. We were created for each other. No matter how much you try and fight it, we belong to each other. Soon enough, your mind will give into what your soul already knows.”

“ _ Stop it _ !” You shout, shoving him away from you.

Satan goes stumbling back, caught off-guard by your sudden attack and nearly topping into the flames. When he rights himself again, he has a devil’s grin plastered across his original face. 

“As I was saying, I can become your greatest desire, but I can also transform into your worst nightmare.” 

He starts to shift and change, body convulsing as bones grow from out of nowhere. Satan’s no longer a man, although was the title of ‘man’ ever one that could be bestowed upon him? Instead, he’s a horrific, imposing creature with multiple heads that almost looks like some sort of dragon. 

“‘And I saw a beast coming out of the sea,’” he bellows, all of the heads combining their voices to form a roar that has you clapping your hands over your ears. “‘It had ten horns and seven heads, with ten crowns on its horns, and on each head a blasphemous name.’”

Vaguely, you realize that the heads are quoting some part of the Book of Revelation, but you don’t have time to wonder about if the Devil has the Bible memorized when the heads of the beast unhinge their jaws, showing off their gaping maws and the dim glow of fire being conjured from deep in their belly. As the heads start to lower towards you, you drop to your knees and let out a blood curdling shriek. 

Michael senses your panic before he hears your terrified screams. He springs up from his plush leather chair in his office, abruptly ending the phone call he was just on with a couple of world leaders. Your screams permeate the air, Michael’s heart pounding in terror at what you could possibly be experiencing right now. In his mind, there’s no time to waste. He blasts the bathroom door open the moment that it comes into view, hoping that you’ll forgive him for barging in on you while you’re nude. 

Your subconscious, which Satan had pulled into Hell the moment your eyes slipped closed for longer than a second, had jolted back into your body upon sensing your imminent demise. In your panic, you had slipped under the water, inhaling mouthfuls of it as your lungs tried to breathe normally again. Your hands cling to the lip of the tub, almost like you’re worried that something will swim up from the depths of the bath and attempt to drag you back under. Alternating between screaming and coughing up the water that has invaded your lungs, your eyes remain clenched tight. 

Michael reaches for you before his mind can start to think about the repercussions of doing so, arms slipping under your body and pulling you out of the water. His suit is soaking wet now, but he doesn’t care. He’s never seen you like this before, so terror-stricken that you can’t even open your eyes, and it shakes him to his core. You thrash against his firm chest, sure that Satan has shifted back and captured you in hell. It’s only when you hear his frantically calm reassurances that your body stops writhing. 

“Hey, you’re okay, it’s fine. I’m here, nothing can hurt you.” He soothes you, waiting patiently for your eyes to flutter open. 

“Michael? It’s...it’s actually you, right?” Your voice is meek in a way that he’s never heard before. 

“Why wouldn’t it be me?” Your eyes fill with tears at the memory, and you shake your head before burying your face in his chest, sobs wracking your body. “What happened to you?”

The only sounds you make are the small whimpers that slip past the barrier of your mouth, floating to Michael’s ears. His fingers go to your back, freezing when he remembers that you’re naked. Hesitantly, he grabs a towel and wraps you in it, though you’re still too shocked to even care. Michael holds you tightly against him, rubbing circles on your back and listening to your heart to make sure it evens out. It takes a while, but it slowly manages to go to a rate that wouldn’t have an Apple Watch alerting its owner of a possible heart attack. 

“(Y/N), is it okay if I get you dressed?” If your head wasn’t pressed against his chest, he wouldn’t even be aware that you had nodded in response to his request, the movement was so small. 

Michael can tell that the steady metronome of his heart is calming to you, so he remains silent while he runs another towel through your hair. He’s gentle with you, almost like you’re a wisp of smoke he’s managed to capture in his hands; one wrong movement, and you’ll disappear. He helps to tug the black nightdress over your head, looking up at the ceiling while he inches it down past your thighs until you’re modest. A wave of his bejeweled hand makes the bathtub start to drain, the sound of the water level receding helping to fill the silence of the bathroom. 

You’re exhausted, although you’re not sure if it’s from the near-drowning that still has your lungs feeling like they’re burning or the fact that Satan literally had you in Hell with him. When Michael picks you up in his arms, you don’t even bother to protest what he’s doing. The covers of your bed have already been turned down, likely the work of a maid slipping in while you were first in the bathroom. Michael sets you down amongst the plush pillows and starts to pull the blankets up around you, but stops when you grab his hand. 

“It was Satan.” You mutter, tired eyes gazing up to see his panicked reaction. 

“What?”

“Lay down with me.” Patting the spot on the bed next to you, Michael slowly slips his shoes off before sliding in next to you. You smile slightly at how he still respects your space, fingers just barely brushing against yours in an effort to not piss you off. “I must have fallen asleep while I was taking a bath. It felt like I only blinked, and suddenly I was in this pitch black landscape…”

You tell him everything about the confrontation with his father, only leaving out the part where Satan accused Michael of being your greatest desire. He listens intently throughout your entire story, saving all of his comments for after you’re finished. 

“Why did he show himself to you?” Michael mutters, almost as if he’s talking to himself. 

“Does he normally not do that?”

“I’ve never actually seen him before. My father has an...odd way of communicating with me, and that usually involves some sort of visions or rituals. I don’t understand why you’re--” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening while he lets out a sigh. “--he’s not pleased with either of us.”

“He couldn’t just have a friendly conversation with you instead of dragging me to Hell?”

“This was intended to be a message that would resonate with both of us. Would you have taken me seriously if he had spoken to me during a ritual?”

“You already know I wouldn’t.” 

“Then what better way to voice his displeasure than by getting the skeptic, the unwilling second part of this equation, to be the messenger?”

“I don’t understand why he’s not pleased, though. I married you. Isn’t that enough?”

Michael grimaces. “You’re far more headstrong than he thought you would be. I think, when my father was picking a bride for me, he imagined that she would be this demure little thing who faithfully worshipped Satan and had already accrued a body count by her eighteenth birthday. You are almost the exact opposite of that, and it infuriates him. Any wrench in our plans means more time that’s wasted.” 

“What you order on Amazon versus what shows up.” You joke, chuckling when Michael stifles a smile. “C’mon, that was funny!”

“It’s time for you to get some rest, (Y/N).” Michael reminds you, stroking your damp hair back from your face. His clothes are no longer wet, and you briefly wonder if he used his magic to dry them before nerves seize your stomach. 

“Wait! Please don’t leave me.” You plead, gripping his arm tightly with both of yours. Michael looks concerned, and you sigh. “I’m scared that he’ll get me again if I fall asleep.”

Michael’s arms wrap around you, securing you against his chest. That steady rhythm that makes up his heartbeat starts to calm you again, and you use the sound to ground yourself. 

“I won’t let him anywhere near you, I promise.” You can’t be too sure, considering how fast you drift off, but it feels like he lays a kiss to your forehead.

Michael keeps his promise, remaining with you until long after you’re asleep. When his own eyes start to slip closed, he allows himself to fall asleep next to you, protecting you no matter what. 


	8. Ironically Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that you’ve recovered from your first meeting with your father-in-law, one question nags at your mind: what about the rest of Michael’s family?

Michael’s back to his awkward self for the rest of the weekend, but you can’t really blame him. How is a person supposed to act when their father kidnaps the subconscious of their spouse and attempts to scare them into submission? After your wonderful Friday with him, though, it’s disheartening to be back on opposite sides of a figurative brick wall. You spent most of the day yesterday in bed, reading a book to try and keep your mind off of your encounter with Satan. Although Michael stopped in periodically, he wasn’t nearly as attentive as he was the day before. Since you’re leaving the mansion in a matter of hours, you at least want to talk to him a little bit. Michael, you’ve noticed, has a habit of avoiding people or things when there’s a subject that he desperately doesn’t want to talk about.

A solitary knock on the office door is the only advance warning you provide before swinging open the door and waltzing in, a sarcastically cheerful “hi, Mikey!” falling from your lips. Michael tries not to react, but you can see the slight quirk of his lips as he rolls his eyes.

“I thought you were made aware that no one is allowed in my office?”

“Figured that didn’t apply to your wife,” you reply while taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the large oak desk.

“You believe that you’re exempt from all the rules of this household,” Michael points out.

“That’s because I  _am_  exempt.” You lay your head down on your arms, looking up at Michael while he works.

“Something’s on your mind.”

“You promised me that you wouldn’t use your magic!”

“I didn’t. Your eyes, however, always manage to betray you.” Shooting a quick glare at him, you can only hold a stern expression for a quick second before your lips twitch and you sigh.

“I was just…well, we need to talk about what happened on Friday.”

“What is there to talk about? I had assumed you asked all of your questions after it happened.”

“I’ve thought of some more.”

“Of course you have,” Michael chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Ask away, then.”

“When Satan was speaking to me, he mentioned your mother, but you’ve never mentioned her to me.” Michael stiffens at your words, slowly laying down his pen and looking up at you.

“I’ve never seen the need to mention her.”

“Why not?”

“Must I explain my reasoning to you?”

“I just think it’s a little unfair that you get to know every single detail about me, but then you get to pick and choose what you tell me about you.” You know not to press him when you’ve already made some valid points, so you wait in silence as he mulls over what you’ve said.

“My mother’s name was Vivien Harmon, she was a cellist and the wife of an adulterer. The Harmon family moved from Boston to Los Angeles, in the hopes that it would repair Vivien and Ben’s relationship. Unfortunately, that move would mark the beginning of the end, for they moved into the so-called ‘Murder House.”

“The house where those two nurses were murdered by that serial killer?”

“That and more. The house sits upon a Hellmouth, causing all of the spirits that die there to remain trapped as spirits. My father took advantage of a young, impressionable boy, possessing him and making him–” Michael’s voice breaks as he shakes his head, “–making him rape Vivien. Vivien, however, was already pregnant by Ben.”

“So…you have a twin? How is that even possible if you each have different fathers?”

“It’s incredibly rare in modern medicine, but it does happen. I overpowered him in the womb, basically starved him of nutrients and prevented him from ever being able to survive. A boy named Jeffrey, born stillborn mere minutes before I was born. The stress, the carnage that was my birth killed Vivien. That’s all I wish to say about the matter.”

“Michael,” you reach a hand out to touch his arm, but he jerks his arm away while wiping a stray tear from his face.

“You should be getting back home, (Y/N). Don’t you have an early class tomorrow?”

“I–yeah, I do.” Standing, you bounce awkwardly as you wait to see if Michael says anything else. “Uh, see you later?”

“Later. I’ll call you.” He’s short, in a way that he normally isn’t with you. Reaching the door, you turn around to look at him one last time. He’s facing away from you, staring out at the warm afternoon light while lost in his thoughts.

* * *

Curiosity is going to get you killed one day, but you’re hoping that day isn’t today. Maybe you should have left the conversation with Michael in his office, but it was all too easy to find the address for the Murder House, and even easier to pick the lock once evening fell and you could move under the cover of darkness. The entire time you were fiddling with the lock on the back door, you told yourself that you would leave if you couldn’t get it open; a sign that you were meant to leave the information as it was, and never speak of your trip to Michael again. But when the lock popped open after only two minutes of picking it, you took it as a sign that you needed to pursue this matter further.

The light of your phone flashlight illuminates your surroundings, and you’re shocked to see that it doesn’t look like the dusty interior of any horror movie house you’ve seen prior to this. It’s well-kept, every odd and end in its place and not a speck of dust in sight. You hesitantly flip the light switch next to you, the light suddenly flooding in from the overhead ceiling lamp that someone still works. You’re pretty sure you can even hear an air conditioner running, and you briefly wonder if a family does live here and if you’ve just accidentally committed breaking and entering. If you have, then it’s a family who doesn’t like to personalize their home at all. There’s no photographs up, no childish artwork hanging on the fridge, nothing besides the obsessive cleanliness to indicate that anyone lives here.

Trailing your fingers along the wall, you take your time as you meander through the house. Although you don’t want to, you find yourself imagining a younger Michael. Was he a cherubic blond boy, chasing after a toy ball down this long hallway? Did he sit atop the arm of the couch while watching the house get cleaned, little legs swinging in the air? Which bedroom belonged to him? Thinking of Michael like this humanizes him, in a way. He’s always been human to you, but he’s always seemed like this indomitable figure that you could never fully touch. Having these mental images of Michael as a gap-toothed child somehow makes him seem just like every other person that you’re friends with.

Oh god, are you friends with Michael now? You did kiss him, so this shouldn’t be too startling, but being friends with the man who had you kidnapped doesn’t sit too well. People are supposed to be friends with their spouses though, right? That’s a good start, then, that you’ve gone from despising him to actually considering him one of your friends.

“It’s rude to break into a locked house, even if it is abandoned,” a cool voice mutters behind you. Gasping, you spin around at the unexpected voice.

An older woman with pinned-back red curls and mismatched eyes, one brown and one cloudy blue, stands before you. She’s clutching a feather duster in her liver-spotted hands, a white maid’s collar selling the look that this is the maid of the house.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that people lived here or else I wouldn’t have picked the lock!” You mentally curse upon realizing that you just admitted your guilt.

“Child, surely your mind isn’t so closed off to believe that.” The woman smiles, extending a hand for you to follow her. “Come, I can practically see your mind whirring with questions.”

“How do you–”

“Please, we could feel the Devil’s mark on your soul from the moment you slipped through the gates.” A clean southern accent accompanies the words that float down the winding staircase along with the woman in a flowing dress, blonde hair teased into a beehive and delicately balancing a glass of bourbon and a cigarette in one hand. “My dear, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Funny,” you say dryly.

“Now, who are you and how did my grandson manage to dig his claws into such a pretty, intelligent girl?” She reaches a shaking hand out, clutching your chin in her grasp.

“You’re…?”

“Why, Constance Langdon, of course.” Although Michael had never told you about his grandmother, the dramatics that both favor would have been enough of a giveaway. “You do know what that boy is, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately.” When Constance quirks an eyebrow at you, you continue. “He had me kidnapped and forced me to marry him in some weird Satanic ritual. Now I’m his wife, which is super ironic because the institution of marriage is inherently tied into religion.” You laugh awkwardly, not really sure how else to explain your unconventional situation.

“Welcome to the ‘lives ruined by Michael’ club.” A teenager with shaggy blond hair wearing an ill-fitting green sweater appears in front of your eyes, Constance tightening her grip on you to keep you from falling down the stairs in surprise. “I’m Tate and I’ll be your tour guide today,” Tate snickers.

“Um, I’m (Y/N).”

“Could you let go of her, Ma? Your nails are going to pierce her skin any second now.” Your eyes widen when your mind connects the dots. This must be the man who was unwillingly conscripted into Michael’s conception. Before you can form a coherent thought in your brain, Tate grabs your arm and pulls you from his mother’s grasp and in the direction of a living room. “Why are you here? We don’t get much in terms of visitors here, and when we do they’re usually killed by the ghosts here.”

“That’s not comforting at all,” you blanch.

“None of us could kill you even if we wanted to, not with the Devil having laid protection on your soul.” At least there’s one upside to being married to Michael, then.

“I just want answers, I guess. I get that Michael’s, you know, Satan’s kid, but there’s still the whole nature versus nurture debate. Could it have been prevented? What was it like when he was growing up? Did he just live in a house with ghosts? Did Satan raise him? Where do the Satanists come into this equation?” Once you start asking questions, you can’t stop, the inquiries pouring out of you like word vomit.

“Whoa, slow down. Who said we were even going to answer your questions? I may not be able to kill you, but I can still make your time here extremely painful.”

“Fuck off, Tate, you don’t scare me after everything that I’ve seen,” you roll your eyes at his pathetic intimidation attempt.

“You’ve seen it too, haven’t you?” A woman with copper hair leans against the doorway, a sleeping baby in her arms.

“Seen what?”

“Satan,” her voice drops to a mere whisper, as if the very mention of his name will summon him to this house. You don’t need to answer her, the widening of your eyes giving her your reply. “At least I was able to give Michael some humanity, or else he wouldn’t have someone like you as his bride.”

“Vivien?” A sad smile appears on her face as she nods.

“What did you see that made you seek out a place like this for answers?” A crowd has gathered, with spirits that you haven’t yet met joining the few that you have.

“I–It was on Friday. Michael lets me have my freedom during the week, so long as I spend the weekend with him. I had decided to take a bath, and I must have dozed off. When I woke up, I was faced with Satan. He…taunted me, made fun of me and then berated me for not yet procreating with Michael. Then he tried to kill me. I guess I screamed loud enough to jolt myself back to consciousness, because when I woke up Michael was yanking me out of the bath.

“Michael has never told me anything about his family, and so I was surprised when Satan mentioned you, Vivien. He complained about the fact that you had managed to pass your overly caring heart to Michael. I tried to ask Michael about his family today, but he gave me the story of his birth and then told me to leave. I’ve never been the type of person to leave with unanswered questions, so I came here. Probably not the smartest decision I’ve ever made, but it’s the one that I stuck with.”

“That boy…” Constance steps forward, taking a swig of bourbon and bringing a hand up to her throat, “is nothing but a monster. You’d do well to find a way out of this marriage that he’s forced you into.”

“I  _can’t_. He told me that if I leave, or tell anyone, he’ll kill my entire family. I tried once, and he managed to figure out what I was doing even though I had encrypted my computer. I’m stuck, and I just need to know. I need to know that there’s some good left in him. If there is, maybe I can stop the end of the world from happening.”

Constance and Vivien share a long look, and proceed to tell you everything. The small animals and nannies that he killed, the rose bushes, the priest, Constance’s suicide, and Michael’s subsequent abandonment. It only gets worse from there; Ben’s attempts to “help,” Tate’s disownment, the lesbian couple that he incinerated, Ms. Mead and the Satanists, and Michael’s first sacrifice.

It’s horrifying to hear the two women describe it. Michael, impressionable mind still catching up to his body after aging ten years in a single night, being manipulated by the Satanists to let them bring a kidnapped young girl into the house. The macabre pomp and circumstance of the ritualistic slaying, in which Ms. Mead and two others plunged a knife into the virgin’s chest and ripped her heart out. They presented the organ to Michael on a figurative silver platter, the boy taking a hearty bite out of the mass of muscle and tissue with nary a moment’s hesitation. Vivien vividly describes the shadow of a horned beast appearing over Michael and unfurling its wings as he swallowed, sealing his fate and affirming his birthright. You’re ashamed that, after all you’ve seen, heard, and experienced over the past month or so, your reaction to the graphic description of Michael’s first sacrifice…

…is to throw up.

You sprint out of the house in a frenzy, barely making it past the gate before violently retching. Your mouth burns as your stomach expels everything it has in it, heaving repeatedly until you’re vomiting nothing but stomach acid. Your hair’s been pulled back from your face, and the hand rubbing your back is soothing until you realize that the ghosts are trapped on the property that you’ve just left. Wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, you shakily glance up to see Michael.

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, running a hand down your face.

“Michael? How’d you know I was here?” Michael smiles softly, shaking his head.

“When you looked back at me before you left my office, I knew you wouldn’t let the matter go. After I realized that I gave you the name of the house, it was just a race to get here to you.”

Michael’s expecting you to be furious at what you’ve learned from his family. He’s expecting you to lash out and fight him, calling him terrible names and threatening to end his life over all of the sins he’s gladly committed. When you envelop him in a hug, his body stiffens from the turn of events.

“Why…are you…hugging me?” He’s gotten more used to hugs since you came into his life, but it’s still something he’s not used to.

“I’m so sorry for all of the shit that you had to go through. You didn’t deserve any of it; it’s not your fault how you were born.”

“Shh, you don’t need to apologize.” Michael slowly wraps his arms around you, but it’s still awkward for him.

“But it’s not fair that you–”

“I’ve come to terms with how my childhood was, (Y/N).”

“You’re not mad at me.” It’s not a question; you’ve seen Michael angry before, and this isn’t it.

“No. It’s my own fault for laying the temptation at your feet. I do wish you would have listened to me, though. I would have told you the information you desired in time, in a way that wouldn’t have been so overwhelming for you.” You chuckle, grabbing the hand he extends to you and allowing him to pull you up. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“ _My_  home,” you say adamantly, looking Michael in the eyes.

“Yes, your home. After all, cats are supposed to be the best cure for a person’s turmoiled thoughts, are they not?” You quietly laugh, nodding.

“She’ll be more pleased to see you than me.”

With his bride clutching his arm, Michael glances back at the house. He hadn’t expected to actually see the spirits, but of course the nosy ghosts are all crowded in the windows. There’s his mother, her auburn hair shining in the late-afternoon light. Tate and Violet hold each other protectively, as if Michael’s mere glance will cause them to burst into flames. Front and center, as always, stands Constance.

She watches him with wise eyes, the grandson that she thought she was saving by hiding his murderous tendencies. She takes a drag of her cigarette and holds it deep in her chest, smoke leaving her lungs in delicate tendrils. Constance has a warning expression on her face, silently imploring Michael to let you go before he does even more damage. His father’s plan of bringing his soulmate to him, it seems, is just another disappointment to add onto Constance’s list of reasons to detest Michael. And so the prodigal son, unwillingly dragged once again to the house of his birth, raises his middle finger to the elderly woman before turning his back on the family he once wanted desperately to belong to.


	9. Blame It On My Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve seen enough of Michael’s world to last you three lifetimes. Now, it’s time to show him some of your world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've been over the fact that I'm terrible at chapter summaries multiple times, hopefully you get over that to read this chapter. ALSO we have the arrival of our new antagonist(s)! And you guys thought it was just Satan-in-law ;)  
> Feedback is always appreciated and, if you feel so inclined, I would love if you left a comment or a kudos. Enjoy! :)

Out of all of the fantasy books that you read as a child, none was more frustrating than Lewis Carroll’s classic _Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland_. It was a fine book, filled with whimsy and adventure, all things that a child can devour like candy, but one particular passage captured your attention and warranted your problem-solving abilities for an entire week after you first finished the book. The famous question of “why is a raven like a writing desk?,” posed by the Mad Hatter to young Alice at their tea party, drove you nearly as mad as a Hatter in trying to solve it. It’s not as if there was an answer; the protagonist, herself, declared that “I think you might do something better with the time than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers,” but you were determined to be the first to solve this unsolvable riddle. Obviously, you didn’t solve the riddle, and the answer still eludes you to this day. You haven’t thought about that old riddle for quite some time, but your current predicament, and the amount of time spent thinking about it, gives you an odd sense of deja vu and reminds you of Lewis Carroll’s question with no answer.

It’s been two weeks since your trip to the Murder House, and your mind has spun with hundreds of questions that seem to have no answer. Michael, of course, hasn’t been any help at all. The man seems to be a walking paradox; when you don’t need him, he’s impossible to get rid of, and on the rare occasion that you do need him, he can’t be reached. You’ve been able to talk to him, your weekend visits to his mansion forcing you to make some conversation, but Michael has diverted every question you’ve shot at him. He doesn’t get mad that you’re constantly coming up with questions that, to you, have no answers, which only confuses you even more. Although you shouldn’t be pushing your luck after his show of mercy at his childhood home, you feel that you’re entitled to some answers.

Michael, the infuriating, confounding, caring husband that he is, has patiently reminded you time and time again that your finals are more important than any questions you may have. You hate it when he’s right, especially when he pulls out the contract and points out that it was you who made it a point to refuse dropping out of school. Your questions, he tells you, can be answered after you’ve finished the semester and gotten the grades you know you’re capable of. If you’re being honest, at this point you would take a year of being trapped in the Murder House over a week of finals ( _“Your dramatics truly never get old,”_ Michael commented dryly when you complained to him during a study break on Sunday). Finals week, you’ve decided, is certainly the work of Michael’s father.

Regardless of your opinions on the week of tests that largely decide your grades, the feelings of joy and relief that flood through you upon walking out of the classroom in which your last final of the semester was held. You have a high enough grade in the class to be able to keep your ‘A’ even if you flunk and, if you were brave, you would have just completely skipped the final. Worst-case scenarios, however, prevented you from doing so and made sure that you actually studied for this test. No matter how you did on the tests, you walk across campus feeling like you’re floating on air. No more school for an entire summer! The bliss that accompanies a last day of school does not, thankfully, fade with age.

Part of you wants to literally put the school in your rearview mirror and stay at least a mile away for three months straight, but you’re also a good person who promised to meet her friends for lunch and isn’t about to back out of a commitment. College dining halls, contrary to popular belief, are not nearly as clique-y as high school lunch rooms. Although there’s a few tables that everyone knows the athletes sit at, the rest of the tables are up for grabs. This can make things difficult when you’re one of the last to an already-packed dining hall and you have to awkwardly stand in the middle of the room while you search for your ‘group.’ Having friends like yours makes this move a lot easier, waving at you to get your attention once they notice that you’re looking around for them.

“You had finals today, right? How’d they go?” Kate and Brennan sit across from you, a bowl of cucumbers sitting between them. You grab at one when you take your own seat, deciding a water-based vegetable is better than nothing.

“They went okay, especially considering they were my last finals,” you reply, glancing around the table to catalogue who is and isn’t here. It’s the usual crew, but you take note of a new face. Shooting Kate a glance, she quickly picks up on your question.

“Oh yeah, you two haven’t met before! (Y/N), this is Mallory. She’s in my Russian Lit class, her other friends have already left for the summer so I invited her to come sit with us today.”

Mallory’s beautiful, her large doe-like eyes and golden leaf headband nestled in her brown locks giving her the appearance of some sort of angel. She’s wearing a black dress that’s cinched with a belt that matches the headband, her outfit looking like it costs as much as a couple of textbooks.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you smile warmly, Mallory returning your smile and waving at you.

“It’s really nice to meet you, (Y/N),” she says.

“Why haven’t I seen you around campus before?” Although it’s a large and populated college, you’re sure that you would have remembered seeing someone as unique as Mallory.

“Oh, we must just run in different circles.” The buzzing of your phone draws your attention from the conversation, sending Mallory an apologetic look before checking the notification.

_“How did your tests go?”_ You can’t help the smile when you see Michael’s message, thumbs flying across the keyboard to type a reply.

_“I think they went really well, thanks!”_

Barely thirty seconds pass before Michael’s responded, and you stifle a laugh at the mental image of Michael sitting at his desk and just waiting for you to check your texts. 

_“You should call me when you get a chance, maybe we can go out and celebrate?”_ After the Murder House escapade, you had become a lot more lenient with your “two phone calls a week” rule. Sometimes it’s actually you that calls him first, much to the shock and surprise of both of you. 

_“Wow, our second date? Amazing, maybe we can even go steady after this lmao,”_ you can’t help the sarcasm, especially not when the opportunity is right there.

“-and-- _(Y/N)_ ,” Kate whines, drawing your attention back to the people in front of you.

“I was listening!” You unconvincingly insist.

“Really? What was I talking about, then?”

“Um...Brennan?”

“No, but nice try. I was talking about the end-of-year party at Colin and Noel’s.” Colin and Noel are two best friends who live together and, at least once a month, throw the type of parties that are the stuff of legends. The first, and only, time you went to one, Noel got so drunk that he body slammed himself onto the pong table, somebody tried to crowd surf, and multiple people ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. 

That was on a regular Saturday in January.

“I don’t know, Kate, I’m still trying to recover from Thirsty Thursday at the Stadium House.”

“That was almost a month ago.”

“That’s the point,” you say jokingly. “But really though, I don’t like crazy parties, and I’d rather not deal with the cops.”

“They’ve scaled their parties back so much since the last time you came to one! No hospital visits related to events at their house, even!”

“Really?” You can’t help but be skeptical at her claim. 

“Really. Listen, you don’t even have to stay for long, but I’d really like to hang with you one last time before I go back home for the summer.” Kate smiles when you sigh, knowing she has you. A good chunk of your friends are all going off to the far corners of the country for the break, and this will probably be the last time that you’re all together for three months. 

“Alright, let me talk with, uhh--yeah, I should be able to swing by for a bit,” your friends don’t know about Michael yet, and you’d prefer to keep it that way.

“Yay!” Kate squeals, drumming her hands on the table in excitement. 

“I should get going.”

“I’ll see you tonight though, right?”

“...Right.”

“Are you going to the parking lot? I’ll walk with you if you are,” Mallory says, a twinge of guilt running through you at the realization that you practically forgot about the poor girl.

It’s impossible for you to say no, and you find yourself walking side by side with Mallory towards the parking lot. It’s a bit of an awkward silence, as it usually is when two people who don’t really know each other are left alone.

“Seriously though, how have we not met before? Are you a freshman?” You ask.

“No, but this is my first semester here. I transferred from a school in New Orleans.”

“Oh, I love New Orleans! I went there for a week last year, it was amazing.”

“Yeah, I, uh,” Mallory looks down towards her heeled shoes, nodding, “I miss it a lot.” Your heart aches at the sudden look of homesickness on your new friend’s (?) face, causing you to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Well, at least the school year’s over and you can go home now.”

“Actually, I think I’m sticking around for the summer. My aunt thinks it’s good for me to get out of New Orleans and out of my comfort zone. My best friend Coco’s letting me stay with her.” Mallory’s phone starts to ring, and she laughs when she looks at the caller ID. “Speak of the devil; it’s my aunt.”

“I’ll see you at the party tonight?” Mallory nods. 

“See you tonight, (Y/N).” Mallory watches you continue towards the parking lot, only answering her phone when you’ve rounded the corner. “Hey, Cordelia...Yeah, it’s her alright.”

* * *

 

Michael, as per usual, is in his office when you arrive at his home. Even though he has no logical way of knowing that you’ve arrived, the opening of his office door before your hand even makes contact with the knob gives you the sneaking suspicion that his Antichrist powers give him an advantage. You stroll in, Michael looking a little _too_ nonchalant as he reads through some papers on his desk.

“Some serious Cooperative business?” You ask, falling into a chair on the other side of his desk. 

“You could say that,” he looks up at you, smiling. “How was your last day of the semester?”

“It was fine, finals were fine, it’s all fine, fine, fine.” You spin yourself in the chair, head falling back as you watch the blur of the ceiling above you.

“That’s a mood.” Stopping suddenly, you look at Michael in surprise before laughing loudly.

“Look at you, catching up on your slang!”

“Figured I’d try and actually learn what you were talking about.”

“Speaking of ‘moods,’ I might have something that would help to raise both of ours.” Michael raises an eyebrow, urging you to continue. “Some...friends of a friend are throwing a huge party tonight for the end of the year. Would you wanna go? I know you had talked about celebrating, but maybe we could celebrate this way?”

“You want me to go to a...college party? The same type of party that you drunk-called me from and where I had to get you from?”

Your face heats up at the reminder. “I’m not even going to be drinking at this party, I learned my lesson last time. Look, I know that you didn’t have the most normal upbringing, so maybe this could be your chance to experience some of the things you missed out on. You can’t tell me that you’re perfectly fine with going from a child to running your father’s army and planning the apocalypse practically overnight.”

Michael’s thinking about what you’ve said, which you’re not sure is good or bad yet. You know that you’ve made some good points, and he knows that you’ll go to the party even if he doesn’t. Maybe this is a question with no answer, like so many that you’ve encountered lately. Michael and parties don’t seem like they’d mix, and it’s impossible for you to read his mind like you can read his.

“Will I be out of place there?”

“Michael, there’s going to be so many people there that nobody will even look at you twice.” A lie; Michael’s far too beautiful for just one look.

“What time?” You aren’t even aware that you were holding your breath until he sighs and looks at you again.

“Really?” Michael nods. “Uh, probably nine or ten?”

“Is there not a set time for these parties?”

“Not really, just whenever people show up.” You stand up, smiling widely at Michael’s sudden apprehension and choosing to leave before he can change his mind. “I’ll leave you to your work!”

The good thing about being at the home of your Antichrist husband is that your wardrobe is limitless. A red satin top and a pair of black jeans (tightened with a Gucci belt, because how are you not going to take advantage of that?) is dressy, yet casual enough to be worn at a college party. When you trek down the stairs at a quarter to nine on a quest to scrounge around the kitchen for a quick meal, you’re not at all surprised to see Michael standing at one of the counters.

“You haven’t gotten dressed yet?” You ask, hopping up on the counter next to him and tearing apart a bread roll before popping a bite in your mouth.

“I figured I could just wear this to the party.” Michael’s expression sours when you laugh.

“I’m sorry, I promise I didn’t mean to laugh! It’s just--if you don’t want to attract a bunch of attention, then I wouldn’t suggest wearing a cloak, a suit, and a pair of red bottoms.” He looks down at his outfit, as if suddenly realizing how overdressed he is.

“But...I don’t know what else to wear?”

“C’mon, I’m sure we can find something in your closet for you to wear.” Michael hesitates when you grab his hand, obviously unsure of what to do next. “Kind of need you to lead the way, since I’m assuming your closet is in your bedroom that I’ve never been to before.”

“Right! Let’s go.”

The uncertainty that you feel at the threshold of Michael’s bedroom holds you back like a tether. It’s not as if anything unscrupulous is going to be happening, but the idea of invading the sanctity of your husband’s private bedroom is a little jarring. Peeking into the room, you’re reminded of a conversation you had with Michael during your first weekend here.

_“Does every room look like this?” An unspoken question dangles in the air:_ does your room look like this? _Michael grins widely, but it’s devoid of any of the emotions that a regular smile would accompany. It’s the smile of the devil._

_“Guess you’ll have to find out for yourself, won’t you?” He chuckles at the withering glare you give him, loping back towards the door and resting a hand on the silver handle._

“So, every room does look the same,” you comment with a smirk, finally getting over your sudden fear and following Michael into his room.

“I had to have a little mystery surrounding me.” Michael smiles. “Are you going to help me or not?”

* * *

 

“Everybody here is in khaki shorts and printed shirts,” Michael hisses in your ear. Your hand grips Michael’s firm bicep, and you give it a teasing squeeze.

“Yeah, and you look a thousand times better than them. You always do.” Cars were already inconspicuously-but-not-really parked up and down the block, and you have to maneuver through at least fifty people just in the entryway and the living room. “College guys don’t really have a sense of style.”

“So I won’t lose you to one of these ‘boys,’ then?” Michael’s style, in your opinion, is timeless. You managed to work with his formal wardrobe, finding a white t-shirt and pairing it with an unbuttoned black shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows (although that part may be totally self-serving), and his black jeans are cuffed into a pair of boots. He still looks more formal than everyone else, but it’s way better than him showing up in a goddamned cloak.

“You never even had me in the first place,” you chuckle, shooting Michael a playful wink. “C’mon, let’s see if we can find any of my friends around here.”

There’s coolers set up in the kitchen to keep the different cans and bottles cool, as well as an array of liquor on the kitchen island. Michael looks like a fish out of water, standing around awkwardly while you start peeking into the coolers.

“I thought you said you weren’t drinking,” Michael comments.

“I’m not, I’m just trying to find some soda or water.”

“(Y/N)!” You turn around, smiling when you see Noel standing before you.

“Hey, bud.” Noel, one of two party throwers of legend, is a shorter guy who makes up for his lack of height with his absolute insane stockpile of never ending energy. His black hair is always carefully gelled and combed into place, and he dresses like a middle-aged rich dad who’s going boating for the weekend.

“Who’s your friend? If he’s a part of Sig Tau, he needs to get outta here before Colin sees him, because Colin still has a huge problem with--”

“No, don’t worry, he doesn’t go to our school.” Noel nods, drumming his hands on the table and picking up a bottle of tequila.

“In that case, can I get you two some shots?”

“I don’t know, Noel, I wasn’t really planning on drinking tonight.”

“C’mon, (Y/N), one shot’s not gonna get you fucked up. I’ve seen you drink before, you’re barely even gonna get buzzed.” He winks, already knowing that you’re going to say yes when you sigh.

“Two shots, then.”

Noel expertly pours two shots, sliding them your way with a friendly “enjoy” before leaving to continue his hosting rounds.

“What’s Sig Tau? Is that some sort of a cult?” Michael asks once Noel’s gone.

“It’s a fraternity, so close.” You slide a shot to Michael and pick up your own, downing it with a grimace. Michael just stares apprehensively at the clear liquid in the shot glass. “Are you not going to drink that?”

“What is it? It looked like you were drinking gasoline.”

“It’s tequila, which is kind of the same thing.”

“If I die, I’m holding you responsible.” Michael throws his own shot back, coughing and hacking as you cheer. “Satan, that was terrible. Why do people drink that?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, grabbing two bottles of water from a cooler and tossing one to Michael, “quick little buzz, palate cleanser, there’s a million different reasons.”

Michael grabs your hand and pulls you out of the way when a girl, clearly already drunk, nearly bumps into you on her search for another drink. She mumbles an apology, choosing to take the whole bottle of Jack Daniels with her instead of pouring it into one of the hundreds of red Solo cups stacked on the counter. His blue eyes meet yours and you both chuckle, silently agreeing to move out of the cramped kitchen and somewhere with less people. While the living room’s not any better, you do manage to run into Kate and Mallory.

“You made it!” Kate exclaims, pulling you from Michael to hug you. Her eyes are wide while also managing to droop at the same time, and you can almost guarantee that she’s crossed. 

“I told you I would be here,” you say, giggling when Kate affectionately boops your nose. Mallory’s standing awkwardly to the side, eyes flickering between you and Michael. Kate also seems to pick up on her friend’s sudden change in demeanor, and smirks when she notices the man trailing behind you.

“And just who is this, (Y/N)?”

“Oh, this is my--uh, my friend Michael.” ‘Friend’ seems like a good term to settle on; you can’t explain your true relationship, Michael is _not_ your boyfriend, and ‘acquaintance’ would be weird to say. Kate wiggles her eyebrows at you, sticking her hand out for Michael to take.

“Helloooo, (Y/N)’s friend Michael.”

“So, do you two have the same classes?” Mallory asks politely.

“No, Michael isn’t in college. He...well, he does--”

“I work for my father,” Michael interjects, smiling down at you. “I’m learning the ropes before I take over for him.” It’s technically not a lie, and you’re impressed until you remember that this must be one of his Antichrist powers. Mallory nods, but you can see a hint of something--doubt, or maybe suspicion?--in her eyes. Kate gasps before anymore words can be exchanged, grabbing yours and Mallory’s hands excitedly.

“I love this song! Dance with me, please!” You don’t really have a choice, the small woman amazingly strong when she wants to be. You look back at Michael apologetically, but he just smiles and gestures for you to go with. 

The familiar bass that underlays all hip-hop songs thumps loudly through you, acting as some sort of an electric charge. Where you had once been bored and ready to quietly slip out of the front door, you’re now controlled by the beat of the song. The congregation of partiers who have also decided to dance grows larger with each passing second, enveloping your trio in the middle. While the dancing isn’t so much dancing as it is bouncing in time with the rhythm, it’s carefree in a way that you didn’t know you needed until now. Mallory takes your hands, both of you laughing as she spins you in a circle.

Michael leans against the wall, head tilted as he watches the dancing college students. More specifically, he intently watches you dancing with your friends. He’s intrigued, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a smile as you move in a way he’s never seen you move before. While you’re more relaxed around him now, you’re still so reserved in your mannerisms. Here, Michael sees a glimpse of who you once were before he dragged you into his life. You smile widely, singing the lyrics at the top of your lungs along with everyone else in the group of dancers. Your hair flows freely around your face, and he finds himself enraptured by the movement.

Would things have been different between you two if Michael wasn’t the Antichrist? Maybe, in another life, or another universe, you both would have attended the same college. The image pops into his head like it’s burned there; Michael sitting next to you on the first day of some nameless class, becoming friends with you first. Slowly but surely, your bond would only deepen, and from friends would spring lovers. Michael shakes his head imperceptibly: a fantasy. He can’t dwell on these silly theoretical questions that have no answers. It’s a fruitless pursuit, and nothing good will come out of fixating on the ‘what if’s.’

Michael jumps in surprise when you’re suddenly in front of him, being too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice the song ending and you making your way back over to him. You laugh, obviously delighted at finally catching him off guard. 

“I let you startle me that time,” he jokingly argues.

“Uh-huh, if that’s what makes this crushing defeat easier for you. Anyways, do you wanna get out of here? Kate and Mallory are the only ones I really came here to see, and if we’re not going to drink there’s not really any reason to be here.”

“I’m ready to go home if you are.”

“Actually, I might have a little detour for us…” you trail off, smiling conspiratorially.

“Oh?” Michael’s not sure if he should be excited or nervous for idea of yours, something that you easily pick up on. 

“I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting on opposite sides of a booth in a small diner that you frequent with friends during the school year. A basket of french fries sits in the middle of the table, two tall glasses that are already beading with condensation standing guard next to the food. Amidst the fluorescent lighting, scratchy country music, loud ceiling fans, and run-down booths, you’re struck by how out of place Michael seems here, in your world.

He had stuck out like a sore thumb at the party, his uncomfortable posture and expensive clothing practically screaming that he did not belong in that small house. Here, in a restaurant with patrons ranging from a young family to an elderly couple, a middle-aged businessman to a homeless woman, he looks like some far-away traveler who landed in the wrong town. He’s a Renaissance piece of artwork, something far too beautiful and celestial for the eyes of these mere humans who couldn’t begin to comprehend the masterpiece that is Michael Langdon.

“Just what are we doing here?” Michael asks after the waitress, an older busty woman with red hair straight from the box, sets your order down and leaves. 

“We’re enjoying a late-night snack,” you say simply, grabbing at a fry and savoring the first bite into the just-fried food.

“A late-night snack consisting of french fries and--are these milkshakes?” Michael picks up one of the glasses, investigating its contents. 

“Uh, yeah? Have you never had a milkshake before?”

“(Y/N), my grandmother hid me away and refused to let me out of the house. Of course I’ve never had a milkshake before.” Your face falls, proving that you’re still not good at hiding your emotions like Michael is. Pushing the other glass towards him, you lace your fingers together and place them under your chin. 

“I’m honored that I get to be a part of your first milkshake experience, then. There’s vanilla and chocolate; try them both, and then you can have whichever one you like best.”

Michael looks uneasily between the two glasses, as if trying to decipher if one is poisoned. “Which one do you prefer?”

“I like them both,” you shrug. 

Finally, he takes a cautious sip of the chocolate. You’re mildly disappointed when he doesn’t have any sort of reaction, silently cataloguing his opinions on the flavor before taking a less-cautious drink of the vanilla. Without any fanfare, he pushes the chocolate back towards your waiting hands.

“They’re both good, you’re right, but I like this one better.” You smile, sliding the glass towards you and sipping the shake that he’s rejected.

“Um, Michael…” you trail, not sure how to phrase what you’ve been thinking of for the past week.

“Yes?”

“Would--is the offer to move in with you still on the table?” Michael smirks widely, and you rush to explain yourself. “It’s just that my rent is going up next month and it’s not worth it at this point, and your place is closer to campus. Plus, my cat likes you better than she likes me.”

You’re not sure why you’re nervous, since he’s obviously going to say yes to your request. You living with him was one of the only things he desperately wanted during the contract negotiations. When you think about it, you just don’t want him to get the wrong idea. It seems as if you’ve finally reached a comfortable relationship with Michael, a place where you tolerate him and could even see him as one of your friends. But an actual romantic relationship is so far down the list of things that you and Michael are, and you don’t want him to think that you’re finally going to be the loving wife that Satan wanted you to be. For lack of better wording, there’s no way in hell that will happen.

“Only because I like your cat better than you, and I wouldn’t want her to go homeless.” Your mouth drops and you laugh, picking up a fry and throwing it at Michael who, of course, deftly catches it in his mouth.

“You jerk!”

“You said it first, not me!”

“Fine,” you sit back against the booth and cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your best poker face on, “but you should know that we’re a package deal.”

“Hmm, I suppose I can cope with that.”

“Do we have a deal, then?” Yet again, you’re struck by the irony of making a deal with the Devil (well, the Devil’s son, but close enough). Michael picks up his glass and waits for you to do the same, clinking your milkshakes together in agreement. 

“We, my dear, have a deal.”


	10. Everything All At Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summers are supposed to be fun, not stressful. Whatever deity is pulling the strings in your life never got that memo, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is up so late and I really have no excuse other than the fact that this has been the craziest couple of months in my life. AnYwAySsSsSs, if you enjoyed, please leave a kudos or a comment :)

The process of moving, while normally quite stressful, is made simple with magic on your side. Boxes are packed according to room in a matter of minutes, dirty floors are cleaned with a glance, and the need for a moving truck is eliminated when items can just be transmuted to your new home. Even dealing with the bigger pieces of furniture that you no longer need, such as your bed and the couch, is an easy task when your new Antichrist roommate can just snap his fingers and send them to a thrift store in need. That last act is done much to Michael’s chagrin, who presents the admittedly tempting option of dropping them on your enemies. In mere hours, your once-full apartment is now completely empty. You’d be lying, however, if you said you were going to miss it. If anything, you’ll miss the certain sentimental value that your first apartment holds within its walls, but the cons of this place (a shower that never heats up, testy thermostat, that one time there was a family of mice living under your kitchen sink, and so much more) far outweigh any pros that could convince you to stay.

Adjusting to living with Michael full-time, however, proves to be the main challenge of your move. Just redecorating your room caused his face to turn a sickly shade of white, horrified that the once-pristine black and silver color scheme has been taken over by tapestries and fairy lights. It was especially painful for him to comply with your request to remove the large pentagram on one of the walls, but you suspect he did it because he doesn’t want to make you mad. He’s already aware of just how monumental a concession of living with him was, and he would rather not push his luck. Your new living arrangement, though, is going to be the only victory you give him if you have anything to say about it.

“No school for three months, then?” Michael had asked when you were hanging clothes up in your closet. 

“Thankfully.”

“So I suppose I’ll be seeing a lot more of you since you won’t be darting in and out between classes.” His tone was all too hopeful, and you hid a smirk at the meaning that he wasn't doing a good job of hiding.

“Well yeah, when I’m not working.” You weren’t looking at him, but you knew that his jaw was clenched tightly.

“Why would you be working? You’re aware of how much money I have at my disposal; there’s no logical reason why you need to have a job.”

“How else am I going to pay you rent?” He breathed in harshly through his nose, and you buried your face is a shirt to keep from laughing.

“Excuse me? You--you don’t have to pay me rent, (Y/N), you’re my  _ wife _ .”

“You’re letting me live with you, it’s the least I could do.”

“If,” Michael stopped, choosing his words carefully, “if that’s what you would like to do, then I suppose I cannot stop you.”

“Thank you!” you said cheerfully, going back to the task at hand while humming a song that had been stuck in your head.

It’s not like you’re that determined to keep paying rent now that you live with Michael. In fact, if this was any other person and  _ not  _ the Antichrist insisting that you don’t need to pay to live on their property, you would happily oblige. With Michael, though, things have to be made a little difficult for him. Ever since the contract negotiations during your first weekend at what you’ve come to refer to as Langdon Manor, you had remained adamant that nothing would change just because you were now bonded in unholy matrimony. For the most part, that has remained the case. It’s also just fun to see how mad you can make him before he needs to go be alone in his office, but that’s besides the point.

Nannying, although not glamorous work, pays better than any other job you’ve had. Getting to look after cute children is also a plus, and they keep you busy enough where there’s never a dull moment. The two kids that you nanny, sisters Maggie and Sarah, love going to the pool and playing make believe. They play so well together that you often find yourself just reading a book and keeping an eye on them while they decide to run a daycare or start a school. Easy work, even if the hours are sometimes less than ideal. Their parents, a doctor and a police officer, work odd hours and have a penchant for date nights on Fridays, which is often their only time off without the kids. It’s not an inconvenience to you; extra hours equal extra money, and the girls go to sleep early enough that you can just watch videos on your phone until they arrive home.

The only one who has a problem with your hours is Michael, of course. You’ve suspected since the house party three weeks ago that he’s been trying to figure out how to ask you out on another date, but obstacles have managed to shake up any plans he may have. He’s not the most subtle, asking you on every Wednesday what your plans are for Friday while trying too hard to look like he’s not invested in your answer. By this week, your third straight Friday date night shift, he’s over it. 

“But tomorrow you don’t work, right?” Michael asks from the speakerphone. Your phone is resting on the kitchen counter, the girls in the living room while you make a dinner of chicken and rice for everybody.

“Nope,” you say, leaning back to make sure the girls are still watching their movie instead of beating each other over the head. 

“We’re having a movie night tomorrow.”

The tone of finality in Michael’s voice makes you laugh. “A movie night? Michael, have you ever even  _ seen  _ a movie before?”

“Yes, (Y/N), I have seen a movie before.” You can almost hear how he’s rolling his eyes right now. “You can pick the movies, and I’ll worry about the snacks?”

“No. Knowing you, your snacks will be something like pickled eyeballs washed down with a tall glass of ice cold blood. I’ll be the one in charge of snacks.” You can’t resist slipping a joke in there, and Michael sighs heavily. 

“Fine. I’ll see you when you get home?”

“Yep, bye.” You hang up the phone curtly when the oven beeps, more focused on pulling the chicken out than crafting a sincere goodbye.

Turning around to put the pan down so you can slice the chicken, it’s not at all surprising to see the girls sitting at the table and staring at you. The two love to eavesdrop, especially when it comes to people talking on the phone.

“Is he your boyfriend?” Sarah asks, her blonde curls bouncing in her ponytails. 

“No, he’s not, and you shouldn’t be listening in on other people’s conversations.” It’s impossible to be serious, and a smile plays on your lips as you dish up three plates and put them on the table. 

Right as everybody starts to eat, Sarah gasps and bolts up from her chair. “I forgot Aunt Stephanie!” You look at Maggie for an answer as Sarah runs off, but the older girl just rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“Do you have an aunt coming over? Your mom didn’t tell me anyone else was going to be here tonight,” you ask. 

“No, it’s a picture that Sarah keeps in her room, sometimes she likes to have it with her.” Sarah comes back as Maggie explains her sister’s actions, clutching a framed photograph to her chest. Setting it down next to her, you see the senior portrait of a smiling blonde girl staring back at you. Her hair is crimped in some places and straight in others, reminding you of the 90s, and she’s wearing classic goth makeup. 

“She’s pretty,” you compliment, smiling as Sarah digs in.

“She’s up in Heaven, so we never met her,” Sarah replies in that easygoing tone that all young children use to reveal information in.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say awkwardly, not really sure how to respond.

“Dad hardly knew her, either,” Maggie retorts. “He was little when she was killed.”

“Your aunt was killed?”

Maggie nods, smirking since she knows something you don’t (ten year olds are going to be the death of you), “uh huh, she died in that school shooting, the one at Westfield High School?”

“Well, at least you get to hear some neat things about her from your family.”

The girls both nod and go back to eating their food, but you just stare down at your full plate, pushing the food around with your fork as your hands shake imperceptibly. Like a puzzle, the pieces all click together. You nanny for the Boggs family, the patriarch of which had a sister named Stephanie, who was killed in the Westfield High massacre. The massacre that was perpetrated by the unwilling sperm donor from which Michael sprung, Tate Langdon. Everybody knows about the infamous Westfield shooting in the way that everybody knows about Columbine or Sandy Hook. You just didn’t know that the family of one of the victims was now employing you.

It’s something that sticks with you long after the girls have gone to bed, and even as you drive home after their parents (the Boggs’, you remind yourself) arrive back from their date. Whether Tate was influenced by the Devil or not, he is still ultimately responsible for the choices that he made. This legacy, the dark thoughts and the murders and the horrible things, extends far beyond Michael. Tate may consider Michael to be the penultimate evil, one who he could never be associated with, but it’s true when they say that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. 

Michael’s still awake when you get home, having gotten in the habit of waiting up for you since you still lived at your old apartment and he would wait for your text to let him know you had made it safely. He’s sitting in the main living room (of which there are three), reading a book and petting your cat, who’s curled up peacefully on his lap. You toss your shoes and bag in your room before sitting down next to him, picking up your now-disgruntled cat and cuddling her to your chest.

“What are you reading?” you ask him, not able to see the cover that’s obscured by his hands.

“One of those  _ Harry Potter  _ books you told me to read. I must say, I am enjoying it a lot more than I thought I would.”

“ _ Goblet of Fire _ , that’s a good one. I’m glad you like it.” 

Michael marks his place in the book, setting it down next to him before giving you his full attention. “How was your day at work?”

“It was...okay?” Michael frowns slightly, not pleased with that answer.

“Did something happen? Did the children finally act out with their parents gone?”

“No, it’s nothing like that, it’s just--something they said,” you trail off, picking the skin around your thumbnail instead.

“What did a ten-year-old and a six-year-old say to you that rattled you this much?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, especially when you’re looking at me with those eyes,” you mutter, looking up at him. “Their aunt, I guess, was killed in a school shooting. The Westfield High one?”

Michael looks at you seriously, your recollection of the girls’ words obviously catching him off-guard. “And that got you thinking--”  
“Not in a bad way or anything, you know I don’t blame you at all for Tate’s sins. It just...got me thinking, I guess.”

“About how much fate must hate us?” Michael laughs bitterly.

“Tate,” you ignore Michael’s last comment, too lost in your thoughts, “loves acting like he had nothing to do with you and that you two couldn’t be more different when, in reality, you’re more alike than he cares to admit. I mean, he shot up a goddamn high school and set his stepfather on fire years before you were born. It really should not have surprised him that he fathered the Antichrist, whether it was willingly or not.”

“I wouldn’t shoot high schoolers, that’s far too messy.”

“I know that, but what I’m trying to get at is that everything, in some sick and twisted way, all comes back to you. I can’t even go to work now without being reminded of you and the carnage that the Langdon name has wrought upon the world. The same name that I carry now too, I guess.” You laugh bitterly at your misfortune, knowing that you can never escape Michael wherever you go.

“You’re being too introspective for your own good tonight, (Y/N). You need to breathe, okay?” Michael takes your hands and forces you to focus on him, making you realize that you’re barely huffing out shaky breaths. “Like you said, you don’t blame me for Tate’s sins. While I have done bad things, they are all to serve a greater purpose. Tate--he was just a dumb kid who hated the world and wanted to kill people in an attempt to feel something.”

You stare at him, repeating Michael’s movements and taking deep breaths while trying to calm down. You’re not sure why this has freaked you out so much: maybe it’s because you’re married to the sire of this mass shooter, or it could be concerns that any future children that you may have with Michael (God forbid that ever happens) would carry a bit of that darkness in their souls.

“We’re having an impromptu movie night tonight,” Michael says suddenly.

“Why not wait until tomorrow?” Maybe it was a distraction tactic, but it certainly did its job. 

“You’re too worked up to sleep, and I worry about you being alone with these dark thoughts swirling in your mind. You need something to take your mind off of it.”

“But we don’t even have snacks.”

“Go check in the kitchen, the staff tends to overstock it with food I would never eat. I’ll pick the movie. Put on some clothes to watch a movie,” the thought of sweatpants calls your name at that, “and meet back here in ten?”

You nod, running your hands over your feverish cheeks before standing up and walking towards your room. As you throw on your favorite sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants, you can’t stop thinking about your outburst. The knowledge that you were babysitting the nieces of one of Tate’s victims shouldn’t have messed you up like it did, and maybe it’s just you being overly paranoid. Whatever the reason, you’re more than eager to find some candy and popcorn and eat enough sugar to make your thoughts go numb. 

There’s plenty of candy hidden on one of the shelves of the staff pantry, and you leave an apologetic note explaining that there was an emergency and promising to restock tomorrow. The popcorn selections are endless, and you end up popping two bags when you can’t decide. Carrying the goodies back to the living room, you see that the lights are dimmed and there’s a nest of pillows and blankets on the couch. The movie’s already cued up on the television, and you smile at the familiar music playing through the speakers.

“ _ Sorcerer’s Stone _ ?” you ask, sitting down next to Michael and pulling a blanket over your lap.

“I’ve never seen the movie before, and since I already finished the book I want to see which one I like better,” Michael explains sheepishly, stealing some popcorn from you and pressing ‘play’ on the remote.

It’s easy to get lost in the magic of Hogwarts, even though Michael keeps making snide comments about how he doesn’t need a wand to do more impressive magic than that. You let them slide, not too bothered about it when you constantly point out differences between the book and the movie. You both finish the first movie strong, albeit with a lack of snacks, and eagerly pop in the second to continue the marathon. 

Throughout the course of the movie, you had inched closer to each other ever so slowly. Using the excuse of forgetting to move back after stealing a snack, or having to move in order to have an equal amount of blankets, results in the most awkward move you’ve ever seen someone pull. Michael, under the guise of shifting to get more comfortable, tries to sneakily slide his arm around your shoulders. You notice the ploy almost immediately, and smirk at him when he thinks he’s pulled it off.

“Really? What teen movies have you been watching lately?”

“You knew?” Michael asks, withdrawing his arm from where it’s sitting around your shoulders.

“Michael, that’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. Of course I knew.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, cheeks bright red as he looks back at the screen.

“Just because I called you out on it doesn’t mean that I’m not fine with it.” You’re not sure where this sudden streak of bravery came from, but you’re going to take it and run with it. Grabbing his hand, you place it in the previous position of being draped over your shoulders. Leaning into Michael’s side, your head rests on his chest as your eyes go back to the movie. “This good?”

“Yeah, this is--it’s fine,” Michael’s voice comes out at a higher pitch than normal, and you bite your lip to keep from laughing.

It’s a lot more difficult to continue watching the movie as the night wears on, and you find yourself more focused on just trying to keep your eyes open than on how Harry and his friends are going to figure out what’s petrifying the students. Michael can tell that you’re on the verge of sleep, nudging you gently every time you start to nod off. “I’m up,” you’ll always reply, “just resting my eyes for a sec.” It’s amusing, and he would send you to bed were you not so adamant that you’re completely awake.

“(Y/N)?” Michael calls gently, your tired eyes flickering up to him. 

“Hmm?”

“Do you think that...well, do you think that you could ever, uh, like me?”

“I do like you, dumbass. Why else do you think I’m sitting here watching movies with you?”

“I know you like me as a friend, but I mean--could you ever see yourself thinking of me as something more?”

“Is this because of what I said earlier, about your legacy?”

“Yes and no. This is something that has been on my mind for quite some time.” You’re awake now, and you sit up and pull yourself out of his embrace.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” 

“I’d rather we discuss it now,” Michael says carefully, knowing that you’re starting to get stand-offish. “(Y/N), you’re very aware of my feelings for you and that I believe what my father has told me about the two of us. I just want to know--I  _ deserve  _ to know how you feel about me.”

“Do you even know how hard it was for me to trust you after you kidnapped me?” you ask, standing up and clicking the TV off. Michael stands up with you, making sure you don’t run off before he’s gotten some answers.

“I thought we were over that by now!”

“We are, but--”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“The issue is that you’ve been in love with me from the moment you first saw me, and I don’t even know if I can let myself have romantic feelings for the fucking Antichrist!” The anger in Michael’s eyes is extinguished, replaced with a crushing sadness.

“You told me that you didn’t blame me for how I was born,” he says quietly. You bite your lip, realizing you just hit him in his weak spot.

“I don’t, Michael, but you’ve also done  _ a lot  _ of bad things, you’re doing bad things, and you’ll continue to do bad things.”

“I would never do those bad things to you. Everything I do is to benefit the plan that my father has.”

“But what if one day his plan changes and you have to kill me?” you shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself to protect against the sudden chill in the air. “You can make all of the excuses you want, but at the end of the day you’re still the Devil’s son, murdering and plotting the end of the world.”

You should have stopped long before this, but the words just won’t stop flowing out of you now that you’ve spilled them. Michael runs his hand down his jaw, nodding slowly. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

He’s thrown you off, and you’re sure it’s obvious that he has. “What?” You’re expecting him to yell, throw things, and maybe slap you again. Instead, he’s eerily calm.

“I asked for you to be honest, and you were, so thank you.” He turns to leave, his movements stilting and robotic.

“Michael,” you reach for him, unsure of what you should do.

“Get some sleep, you’ve had a long day.” Michael smiles weakly at you, his hand resting on the door frame. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nod dumbly, mutely, unable to do anything but watch as he leaves. Suddenly, you’re entirely too aware of how he must have felt all the times he wounded you with only his words. It’s a bitter feeling, one that replaces the lingering sweet taste of candy with sour words you had spilled so recklessly. It’s a taste that won’t go away, long after brushing your teeth and falling asleep with the taste of salty tears on your tongue.


	11. Try (Just a Little Bit Harder)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have to do arguably the hardest thing you’ve ever done: apologize to Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter (short for me, at least) today. Sorry for the wait, hope you guys don’t hate me! Enjoy, and if you did I would love if you left a kudos or comment!

Dealing with complex emotions is not one of your strong suits. Typically, when feelings that you would rather not experience come up in your life, you handle it one of two ways. One, you talk through it with your friends, that way you’re not alone. Two, you bury those feelings deep down inside of you where they’ll hopefully never see the light of day again. Unfortunately, you’re well aware that using option number two is neither healthy nor conducive to solving the problem that you’re facing, which is why you’re sitting at a small coffee shop with Kate and Mallory. It almost feels a bit like you’re under interrogation; the two are sitting across from you, trying to engage in a staring contest as you stare down at your drink. 

“So this isn’t about the mysterious man–”

“Michael,” Kate interrupts Mallory helpfully.

“Right. This isn’t about the Michael that we met at Colin and Noel’s party?”

“No, it’s not! Michael’s just a friend.” Kate and Mallory exchange glances, both weighing whether or not to call you on your blatant lie. 

“Okay, then. So you asked to meet up with us so you can talk about the problems that you’re having with some other guy?” Kate asks.

“Yeah.” You had been deliberately vague when you texted the pair, not wanting to get too into details when you believe Michael still has some sort of software that allows him to see what’s on your phone. “So I know that he likes me, as in he really likes me. But I don’t know if I feel the same way about him, and it scares me what that would mean if I did like someone like him.”

“‘Someone like him?’” 

“It’s…complicated, but he’s done a lot of bad things in his life. So has his entire family, actually.”

“How bad are we talking? Murder? Tax fraud? Is he in the mob?” Mallory elbows Kate to get her to stop talking. 

“I think what Kate’s asking is how reprehensible the things he’s done are.”

“They’re,” you pause, thinking how best to describe the Antichrist without revealing who it is you’re talking about, “definitely not going to win him a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“I’m not gonna judge you based on who you like, but damn girl!” Kate says approvingly. “Why are you scared about liking him?”

“What does that say about me, if I can have romantic feelings for a person who has done terrible things like he has?”

The two are silent as they try to come up with an answer that would properly answer your question. Maybe it’s your own fault for asking them to help you with such a monumental question. The silence stretches on for long enough that you’re getting ready to apologize for wasting their time, leave, and never see them again.

“You’re not a bad person just because of who you like or don’t like,” Luckily, Mallory speaks before the plans you’ve made while worrying you’ve inconvenienced your friends start to sound like a good idea. 

“Mal’s right. If you like him, then you like him. You can’t help that,” Kate says. 

“But I don’t know if I do like him,” you sigh.

“(Y/N), I’m saying this because we’re friends, but you need to allow yourself to be loved and cared for by other people. You’re always so closed off, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it’s okay to be vulnerable around people.”

“I’m vulnerable!”

“I tried to connect with you for a month before that party at Stadium House. You were always nice to me, but you never put time into wanting to make a new friend.”

“I…I didn’t know, Kate.”

She waves a hand in the air nonchalantly. “It’s fine now because I wore you down, but I just want you to know that you don’t have to act like that just because that’s how you think you need to be. You’re allowed to have friends, and relationships, and to share your feelings just because you want to. Feelings can be scary, especially when you’re having them for a person who, objectively, may not be the greatest. What matters, though, is how he treats you.”

“We didn’t like each other much when we first met,” of course, that dislike was one-sided, a fact that they don’t have to know, “but now…he treats me very well. Last night, though, I said some things that I shouldn’t have said to him. They were mean, and totally out-of-line, but I was angry and I ended up using personal information that he’s told me to insult him.”

“That is tough, but I think you need to just apologize. Say sorry, tell him why you felt the need to say those things at that time, and just make sure he knows that you didn’t mean it,” Mallory says.

“And then go for it! Get your man!” Kate nearly yells across the table, a grin on her face.

“Maybe, though, you shouldn’t…” Mallory says cautiously. 

“What?” You don’t bother to hide your shock at being given the complete opposite advice than what you were told.

“Well, you said he’s a bad person. It’s okay to like him, but maybe don’t act on those feelings. Just keep your distance, and maybe then the feelings will go away.”

“Mallory, that’s terrible advice,” Kate chides. 

“I’m just being honest. You never know what kind of trouble (Y/N) could get into if she continues to associate with a guy like that.” Her brown eyes, while normally wise, hold something darker within their depths, something that tells you she knows something that you don’t. You tilt your head, suddenly suspicious, staring at her with narrowed eyes.

“What kind of trouble could I–” you’re cut off by Kate’s phone chiming, the tension breaking along with the conversation.

“Oh shit, I have to be at work in an hour. If I’m late again then my boss will literally have my head served on a platter instead of the food. Mal, if you want a ride back then we’re gonna have to leave.”

“I can give Mallory a ride.” You want to talk to her more, interrogate her as to what she knows.

“No, that’s fine,” Mallory stands along with Kate, “I’m sure where I’m staying would be out of your way. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

You stand as well, not wanting to be the person that sits in a coffee shop alone. Making your way out with Mallory and Kate, you slide your jacket on to hide from the oddly brisk summer morning. 

“Hey,” Kate grabs you arm, “just be honest with him. That’s the best thing you can do, and I think he’ll really appreciate that.”

Nodding, you smile as Kate hugs you with the arm that she’s already got wrapped around you. “Thank you. I’ll let you guys know how it goes,” you pause when looking at Mallory, still trying to figure out the meaning behind what she said to you. The mysterious woman stares back at you with eyes painted in smoky tones before turning away, walking down the street with Kate and leaving you with a chill down your spine.

* * *

The manor is silent when you arrive back at home, which was to be expected. Michael Langdon, you’ve learned, reacts to being upset by either exploding in rage or remaining completely silent and withdrawing from everything. After last night, where he thanked you for your honesty, you knew that it would be the latter. Shockingly, however, he’s not in his office. You had barged in after a minute of knocking and asking if it would be okay for you to come in, only to end up with no response. When you opened the door, the room was devoid of any sign that Michael would be in there.

He’s not in the kitchen, or one of the living rooms, or even in your room. Thinking for a moment, you decide to head to a place you’ve only been allowed into once: Michael’s bedroom. You reach the large oak door of his bedroom, pausing in front of it to run your fingers along the delicately engraved upside-down pentagram before knocking. 

“Michael?” you call quietly. “Can I come in? I just want to talk.”

There’s no response, but the door does open of its own accord. You take that as an invitation, and step inside to Michael’s personal quarters for the second time. His back is to you as he sits fully-clothed in his regular suit on top of the bed, the curtains nearly shuttered so only the smallest hint of light filters through. Sliding your shoes off, you get onto the bed and crawl towards him. He still doesn’t look at you, not even flinching when you wrap your arms tightly around him from behind to smother him in a hug.

“Look, you know that I’m not good at talking about feelings, or emotions. That’s arguably the one thing I’m better at than you, actually,” you laugh quietly. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was rude, and uncalled for, and came from a place of anger and fear. I’m so sorry, Michael, what I did to you wasn’t right.”

He takes a moment before he speaks, “maybe you were right. Maybe I’m just the Antichrist, and nothing more. I can…pretend to be a person with likes, dislikes, personality, but I’m still just the Antichrist who murders, and hurts people, and will continue to do that until I eventually end the world.”

“You’re not just an evil being, though. You do have likes, dislikes, and a personality, even if that personality can be annoying sometimes,” you joke.

“How would you know? It’s not like you know anything about me.”

“I know tons about you!”

“Like what? That I have a proclivity for overdressing and a hell of a temper?” The temptation to snort at Michael’s use of the word ‘hell’ goes over your head.

“No.” Shifting, you straddle Michael’s hips so that you’re sitting on top of him, forcing him to look at you.

“(Y/N), get off of me.” He’s quiet, refusing to get angry when he looks at you.

“Your favorite flavor of ice cream is mint chocolate chip and you have a secret sweet tooth. You love cats, you can complete a Rubik’s Cube in thirty seconds, and you’re really awkward at parties.” He smiles slightly at you, blue eyes starting to become cloudy with tears he’s desperate to hold back. “You’re kind, and really sweet when you want to be. I had to teach you how a hug works and you keep information stored in your brain like you’re a computer. You had a really shitty childhood and nobody loved you, but that’s okay because I’m going to teach you how to be loved.”

“But I thought–”

“Love…doesn’t have to be romantic. It can be familial, or platonic, or even two people that were forced into a marriage together who are kind of friends now. It’s you and me now, Michael, whether we like it or not.” You’re more than a little shocked when Michael puts his chin on top of your head and hugs you tightly, the wetness on your hair the only sign that he’s crying.

“I love you,” he mutters.

Truthfully, you reply, “I love you, too.” Both of you are aware that you each have a different version of love behind your declarations, but you’re both alright with that.

“I shouldn’t have asked you if you would ever fall for me romantically last night, that was uncalled for and I’m sorry.”

“I won’t say that it’ll happen, because I just don’t know. Right now, however, if you’re okay with it, I’d just like to get to know you and be friends with you.”

Michael nods. “I can live with that. I can’t say that I won’t attempt to win you over, because I will, but I can live with being friends.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief, laughing into Michael’s shoulder when he flips you around so he’s hovering above you. It’s a situation that feels familiar, and his smile warming you serves to let you know that everything is okay again.

“Do you think that friends can get friend kisses from each other?” Michael asks cheekily.

“No!” 

You shove him off of you, both of you laughing when he lands next to you. Laying side by side, you stare up at the ceiling as you think of how happy you are to not be fighting with Michael anymore. The man in question, however, lays next to you and thinks about making his next visit to dear old dad tonight.


	12. Some Kind of Drug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael deals with his rejection in a much different way than most other people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Mad Love, friends! Sorry it’s taken so long, but life happens. Hopefully I’ll be able to post more now. As always, feedback is very much appreciated, and if you enjoyed I would love if you would heart and kudos.

_Flickering candles cast long shadows on the walls of the chamber as Michael moves around, making sure that everything’s in the exact position he needs it to be in order to conduct his ritual. Communicating with his father in this way is not new to him, but it is something that he’s neglected since you came into his life. Now, however, Michael’s done playing your games. He’s been patient with you, allowing you to determine the speed of the relationship. Sooner or later, he figured, you would stop fighting what your soul knows to be true and give into him. Obviously, he had vastly underestimated you._

_He hardly flinches as he makes deep cuts down the length of his arms, watching with silent concentration as the thick blood quickly starts to pool on the ground beneath him. Falling to his knees, he starts to use the blood to paint an upside-down pentagram. The movements are almost robotic-like now, becoming second nature after so many years. The Latin that Michael’s chanting falls off of his lips with ease, the words echoing through the empty air._

_“May you rise from the void, Father,” Michael says, switching to plain English as he begins to complete the summoning. “May your darkness guide me, power in Satan to overcome my weaknesses. Power in your name, strong within.”_

_A humming, high-pitched and ceaseless, sounds in Michael’s ears as his vision dances with spots. Every single sense is being assaulted as his demonic, Satanic nature takes the wheel. The candles begin to roar with each second that passes, the fervor building in Michael’s veins as he waits with bated breath for Satan to arrive. The bloody pentagram bubbles underneath him as the height of the flames reaches to the ceiling, unchanged by the sudden wind that whips through the room. When the wind stops just as unexpectedly as it started, the air growing stiflingly still, Michael looks up with pitch black eyes._

_“Ave Satanas.”_

_To the normal human eye, nothing is in the chamber with Michael. To the son of Satan, however, his father stands just behind him, a ghost-like touch on his shoulder as he whispers into the ear of his son, the same ear that’s burned with the Mark of the Beast. The humming starts up again, but to Michael it registers as words._

_“Father,” he calls, “I request your guidance! You’ve…tortured me with these images, visions of a future that I will have.”_

_He’s been plagued with these visions for months now, long before Ms. Mead stuck that needle into your neck. They often come to Michael in the form of dreams, but he has been known to collapse to the floor as he’s taken over by a premonition. They’re always vivid, and they’re always of you and Michael. Michael, holding you as a husband should hold his wife._

_Kissing you._

_Making love to you._

_In his visions, you rule alongside him. The new world has been ushered in, with Michael as its king and you as its queen. You love each other unconditionally, just as it should be. You belong to him, and he belongs to you._

_(Usually, he’s holding onto at least one curly-haired blonde cherub, and you’re almost always pregnant with another. That desperate need for a family, however, can wait. First, he needs to win over your mind.)_

_“Her will is strong, stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. Our souls were created for one another, yet she continues to deny what is inevitable. The bonding ritual from the night of our wedding was a failure, and she continues to spurn any of my advances. I’m lost, Father. How am I supposed to complete your plans if I do not wholly have the one person who is supposed to be at my side during all of this?”_

**_“Perhaps something more…permanent?”_**   _Satan’s voice sounds preternaturally deep in Michael’s ear, and he has to hide a shiver._

_“I promised (Y/N) that I wouldn’t use magic on her without her permission.”_

_**“And you won’t.”**  Michael’s arm is raised by an invisible force, palm facing upwards as his hand is outstretched. An apple, bright red and almost perfectly shaped, appears in his grip._

_“I don’t understand what this will help with.”_

_Satan remains silent, allowing a vision to play out in front of Michael’s eyes as a response. Michael watches as you appear in front of him, silently asking for the apple with a familiar tilt of your head. He hands it to you, your shimmering mirage-like form holding it as if you’re actually there. You take a large bite out of the apple, Michael nearly moaning as he watches the juice dribble past your full lips and down your chin in a near-erotic scene._

_There’s no sound coming from you as you gasp, the apple landing heavily on the ground. Your expression changes, and you blink rapidly, as if trying to see through a thick fog. When your eyes meet Michael’s, you smile softly. Michael’s frozen, enraptured as you approach him and sit in his lap, not at all bothered by his lack of clothes. Your arms loop around his neck, and Michael can almost feel the heat of your breath as you begin to lean in. Right as your lips are about to connect with his, you disappear as suddenly as you appeared._

_“So it’s–” Michael’s chest is heaving, and he has to remind himself to breathe._

_**“Nothing that will harm her. One bite of this apple and she will be yours, my son. Body, mind, and soul.”** _

_Michael could almost just take the apple and run, but something is stopping him. “That’s still using magic on her, whether or not it’s mine.”_

_**“I bring a gift for you, and this is how you repay me? With ignorant questions and flippant reactions?”** _

_“No Father, I’m extremely grateful.”_

_**“Then take the gift. If anything, do not think of this as magic. Think of it–”** _

The dream (or maybe a nightmare) is the kind that’s forgotten as soon as you shoot up in bed with a gasp. You know that it was extremely vivid, your heart still pounding as you grab your phone to turn your alarm off, but you can’t remember the specifics. Lots of candles and Michael are the only things you’re sure were a part of your dream, but those could be used in any setting. Michael knocking over a candle and setting the house on fire? Celebrating Michael’s birthday? Lighting fireworks with Michael?

You shake your head, hoping maybe that will clear the fuzzy feeling in your brain like it clears an Etch-a-Sketch. You’re disoriented, like you slept for twenty hours instead of the eight or so that you normally do. Intense dreams tend to do that to you, so you’re careful with yourself as you crawl out of bed and head for the shower.

Even after you’ve washed the remnants of a restless sleep off of you, you still feel…off. You’re not sure if it’s related to the dream that you can’t remember, but you just feel weird today, like the world’s just slightly tilted on its axis and you’re the only one who notices it. Staring at your face in the steamed-over mirror as you comb through your hair, you frown slightly at yourself.

“Get it together, (Y/N),” you mutter to your reflection, watching as she says the words back to you at the same time. Swiping a towel over the mirror to clear it up, you shoot a couple of half-hearted finger guns at yourself before deciding that you need to stop procrastinating before you’re late. 

Michael, surprisingly, is leaning against the counter when you make your way into the kitchen. Normally he’s already in his office by this time, so to see him eating a bagel while scrolling through his phone is jarring. 

“Um, good morning?” you say, thrown off by this change in his ever-strict schedule. He must not have heard you come in, because he jumps when you greet him.

“(Y/N)!” He straightens up, trying to act like you didn’t just scare him. “You really are getting better at sneaking up on me.”

“Damn, and I wasn’t even trying.” You jokingly shoulder check him as you pass by, hearing him snicker under his breath.

“Do you nanny the two girls today?”

“No, I have to meet with my advisor on campus.”

“I thought class didn’t start for another couple of weeks?”

“It doesn’t, and please don’t remind me,” you groan, looking forlornly into the fridge. “This summer went by way too fast, I feel like I didn’t even get to  _do_  anything!”

“You would have been able to enjoy your summer if you had heeded my advice and not taken a job,” Michael points out, falling silent when you shoot him a withering glance.

“You may be the Antichrist, but I’ll still kick your ass if given the chance.” There’s nothing that appeals to you in the fridge, so you begrudgingly shut the door and look around for something that you can eat quick before running off to campus. “What are you up to today? Meeting with Putin?”

“The ghost of Josef Stalin, actually.” Michael smiles when you laugh loudly.

“Ah, well, be sure to break the bad news of the fall of Communism gently.”

“I’ll try, but my Russian’s pretty basic, at best.” 

Nodding as if you understand the downfalls of only being passing in the Russian language, your eyes fall on the fruit bowl sitting on the counter. Although all of the fruit looks pretty appetizing, the particular apple sitting at the top is practically calling your name. It’s shiny and bright red, and looks as if it was just picked out of a tree. The feeling that something’s off returns with a full force, making you pause right as you’re about to grab the apple. Figuring that you’re just hungry, you shake it off and take the fruit from the bowl.

Running it under some water, you look at Michael with a questioning glance when you feel him staring at you. “Do you have a problem with me eating this apple?”

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” he says quickly. “Just lost in my thoughts, I guess.”

“O…kay?” He still watches you as you turn the water off, shaking the apple dry and grabbing a towel to wipe your hands. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, absolutely. Why?”

“You just seem off today. Then again, maybe it’s the moon or something, because I’ve felt weird all morning, too.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, I had a really vivid dream last night, and I still haven’t been able to get over it.”

“Hmm, what was it about?” Michael’s mind is fighting a battle with his nature as he anxiously watches you toss the apple in the air before setting it down on the counter to grab a glass of water. 

“That’s the thing, I don’t remember. All I remember is that it involved you and some candles.” Michael’s pretty sure his heart stops, automatically knowing that you somehow inadvertently had a front-row seat to the ritual with his father. “I don’t know, maybe it involved you setting the house on fire?”

“Why would I ever set the house on fire?”

“Hey, I never said you did it on purpose! You could’ve dropped a candle? Can’t you light things on fire with your magic? Maybe you just got too excited.”

“Okay, you’re making me nervous talking about the different ways I could burn the house down.” He’s nervous for a few reasons right now, but you don’t need to know that. 

“And here I thought you couldn’t get nervous,” you tease.

For Michael, the next two seconds happen slow enough to make it feel like two minutes. He watches as you raise the apple to your mouth, heart jumping in his chest with a mix of glee and horror. Finally, it’s happening. He should be happy about this; he is happy about this, but he can’t deny how he guilty he feels.  _Still,_  he attempts to argue with himself,  _it’s not like you’re forcing her to love you. You’re just helping her to see what her soul knows._

_But I’m making her feel that before she’s ready to acknowledge it,_  he fires back.

_She’s had months now to acknowledge it! It’s time to speed things along._

The time that Michael spends debating with himself, he finds, is precious time lost. Instead of coming to a decision, you make the decision for him by biting into the apple. He stifles a gasp, feigning a cough instead as he waits for the inevitable to occur. The inevitable, however, occurs much slower than he was led to believe. One, two, and three bites are taken before Michael remembers how to speak. 

“(Y/N)?” he asks cautiously.

“Yeah?” He’ll forgive the fact that you talked with food in your mouth this time, since there are bigger worries at hand.

“Are you…feeling alright?” You eyes widen, and Michael’s sure that the magic’s taken effect. 

Then, you roll your eyes. “Perfectly fine, unless you poisoned the apples a la Snow White?”

“I was just curious.” You shake your head slowly, obviously not believing him.

“And I thought I was going to be the weird one today,” you mutter under your breath, checking the time and grabbing your bag like you would any other morning. “I gotta go. Don’t light the house on fire while I’m gone, okay?”

“I’m not planning on it,” Michael says, still in disbelief that you’re acting completely normal.

With a cheeky smile and a sarcastic wave, you’re out the door with a “bye, Mikey!” He doesn’t even bother to correct you on the nickname, standing in the kitchen in a frozen stupor as he tries to figure out what just happened.

Michael rushes over to the fruit bowl, unsure of if you grabbed the wrong piece of fruit or if you’re just impervious to any sort of mind-affecting magic. Flipping the bowl over, the various apples and oranges scatter across the counter. He allows the tendrils of his magic to extend out like extra limbs, hands grasping for each apple that he can find. Finally he feels it, the magic that fully coats the apple as if it’s caramel being drizzled on top. Michael cries out in relief, examining the apple to make sure it really is the one that was given to him by his father. 

With one look, the apple’s incinerated until there’s nothing but a small pile of ashes in Michael’s hand. He turns on the faucet, washing his hands of the ashes and keeping the water running until he’s sure that any trace of the rotten plan is down the drain, both figuratively and literally. Leaning against the counter, Michael flicks his wrist to put the bowl back on the counter like nothing ever happened.

He got lucky this time. Satan influences Michael, injecting himself into his son’s veins and manipulating him until he’s something he doesn’t recognize, something villainous and evil. He almost let the Devil do it again, only this time it involved you. “Never again,” Michael mutters, determined to escape the clutches of his father. 

Evil, however, comes in many different forms.


	13. Terms and Conditions May Apply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if being presented as the wife of the Antichrist to the most influential people in the world at an exclusive event wasn't enough for you to handle, Satan may have a special surprise in store for you as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken so long for me to post, and I have no excuse other than my senior thesis has taken up ALL of my time for the past month. Enjoy!

The night after your first day of classes, Michael utters the words that you were hoping never to hear. It had been such a nice evening, too. You had finally worn Michael down enough about cooking that he agreed to let you cook dinner for an evening. It was just a simple meal, pasta and marinara that your dad used to always make, but it was familiar, and made you feel at home in a way you hadn’t yet while living at “Langdon Manor,” as you call it. Ending up on the couch with Michael, your head in his lap as he reads some business papers and strokes your hair, smiling every time you laugh at the videos on your phone (you’re saving Michael’s introduction to Vine and TikTok for another day), was the perfect way to end the night. Of course, he had to ruin it by opening his mouth.

“I think it’s time for you to attend an official Cooperative function with me,” Michael says. You look up at him in horror, of which he can’t quite tell is real or fake.

“ _ Michael _ _!_ ” you groan, sitting up so you’re level with him.

“ _ (Y/N) _ _!_ ” he mocks, refusing to back down. “We’ve been married for, what, seven months now?”

“Nearly eight,” you remark dryly.

“Over half of a year. And in the time of our marriage, you’ve never once met with the Cooperative. You haven’t engaged with my father’s congregation since our wedding.” Michael sees the look on your face as you prepare to make a snarky comment about the congregation, so he hurries to make his next point. “These are necessary duties that you, as the wife of the Antichrist, must undertake. Need I remind you of our ‘contract?’ You had agreed to attend Cooperative functions and meetings with me. That time, my love, has come.”

You bristle at the pet name (no matter how long you’ll be married to Michael, you’ll never come to be a fan of them), but ignore it for now. “I don’t want to do it.”

“I understand that. I don’t want to either, but it’s something that we both must do.”

“What do you mean, you ‘don’t want to do it?’ Being worshipped by these people and commanding a room  _ aren’t _ things you enjoy?”

“It’s a part of the title my father bestowed upon me. There is...a certain beauty to being the one prophesied in ancient times, but the blind devotion that a lot of these influential members of society who have sold their souls in order to gain power is disgusting, in a way. I don’t quite enjoy having them fawn over me in the hopes that I’ll grant them favors of some kind.”

“So then why do you go to these events if you don’t like them?”

“It gives my father’s followers something tangible to worship. In a way, my existence lets them know that selling their souls was not in vain. I am proof that my father’s plans are coming to fruition.” Michael tentatively reaches his hand out, slowly grabbing yours when you don’t pull away. “So? Will you come?”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“I’m afraid not, but I figured I should at least ask you.”  
“Fine, but I don’t want to wear black to this thing. _Or_ red. I want to be me, not the wife of the Antichrist.”

“You’re both, but I think we can work something out. The color scheme isn’t a requirement, merely...a suggestion.”

“A suggestion you make sure to enforce.” Standing up from the couch, your face softens slightly at the hurt look on Michael’s face. “I’m not mad, I’ve just gotta get some syllabus tests out of the way before I forget about them.”

“Don’t make plans for Friday, okay?” You nod, Michael kissing your hand before letting you leave for your room, where you proceed to sulk about having to go to a Satanist party while watching Netflix.

* * *

Friday arrives, much to your displeasure, bringing with it an army of stylists that the Cooperative has at its disposal. You somehow manage to stop them when they attempt to do your makeup heavily, conceding only to a semi-prominent eyeshadow look and lipstick. The dark pink, almost red shade goes with the one dress you didn’t automatically veto, a silky, emerald A-line dress with spaghetti straps that cinched at your waist before falling down to your ankles. The hairstylist, a man with platinum hair and the attitude to pull it off, had decided to leave your hair down after you had nearly yelled at him for trying some fancy updo. Looking in the mirror after they’ve forced you into a pair of heels, you have to admit that you do look pretty nice. It’s not a look that you would ever come up with yourself, but it suits you well.

Although Michael would never rush you, you’re sure he’s been waiting for a few minutes now. While his hair is always better than yours, his Antichrist powers probably provide him some extra minutes when it comes to getting ready. The stylists give you one last check before deeming you good to go, placing a clutch in your hands and ushering you out of your bedroom. 

Michael’s waiting patiently in the foyer, idly checking his phone until he hears movement from the floor above. Pocketing the device, he glances up the stairs only for his eyes to widen as he fights to keep his jaw from dropping. You descend the stairs looking every bit the goddess he’s known you to be since the moment he laid eyes on you, and you smile shyly at his awed expression.

“Did they screw up that bad?” you joke, desperate to break him out of his stupor.

“No, you’re...stunning, (Y/N). Words could not possibly express just how beautiful you are.”

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment, and you gaze up at the ceiling to avoid looking him in the eyes. “Didn’t know you could be a sweet talker, Michael. Thanks. You clean up well yourself.”

He looks down at his outfit as if just now realizing he’s dressed. “I pale in comparison next to you.”

Considering he’s wearing a designer cloak and suit, you doubt that. Michael holds his arm out for you and you gratefully take it, ankles feeling weak from the heels that you’re in. Of course the Antichrist wouldn’t be rolling up to an event dedicated to him and his father in a car he’s driving, so the chauffeured vehicle is not a surprise.

Michael does an excellent job at distracting you on the drive to the classified location where the gala/event/rich people benefit will be held. Between playing you at 8 Ball on your phones--a game that he’s getting surprisingly good at--and debating you on the nuances of selling a person’s soul, you don’t realize you’ve arrived until the car comes to a stop. 

“Just a moment,” Michael says to the driver, who puts the car in park and exits the vehicle, presumably so you and Michael can be alone. “Before we go in, there’s a few things you need to be aware of.”

“Please tell me there’s not going to be a human sacrifice in there,” you mutter.

“No sacrifices, I promise. I’ll handle most of the talking, but you might get a few questions from some curious members. Feel free to answer them if you would like, and if I deem their questions to be appropriate.”

“And if I don’t want to talk to them?”

“Just squeeze my hand and I’ll get rid of them.” Your eyes widen, and Michael chuckles before shaking his head. “Not like that, I’ll just tell them that they should enjoy the evening.” 

“Anything else?”

“Cooperative members like to be very secretive about everything. Many who will be attending tonight are fine with fellow members knowing their identities, but some may be wearing masks. Don’t be alarmed at that, but definitely don’t ask them who they are.”

“Alright,” you smile. “I think I can handle that.”

“Oh, and don’t smile.”

“Don’t...smile?”

“While I love your smile, everyone here is beneath you. They’re not our friends, or people who deserve our kindness. Unless I smile, please try not to act friendly.”

“O--okay.” You’re less sure of yourself now, and it obviously shows as Michael takes your hand.

“Hey, you’re going to do great.”

“And if I don’t?”

Michael shakes his head. “Impossible. Are you ready?”

“No, but let’s go.” The door of the car swings open, the chauffeur innately knowing when Michael’s ready. He climbs out ahead of you and helps you out, making sure you’re not going to trip over your own feet before he lets go of your waist.

You grab his arm tightly as he leads you inside of what looks like some lavish country club. Two stoic guards stand on either side of the main entrance, staring straight ahead like you’re walking into Buckingham Palace. It’s difficult to hide your shock when you see the petite figure of Ms. Mead standing in the entryway, dark lips turned up in a smile.

“Ms. Mead,” Michael greets, kissing the woman who’s like his mother on the cheek.

She smiles, patting his face lovingly. “My sweet boy,” she says before turning to you, “and you look lovely as well, (Y/N).”

“Um, thank you?” You’re a little apprehensive, considering the last time you saw her, she stuck a needle in your neck.

“They’re ready to begin, Michael.” He nods, giving Ms. Mead one last smile before moving away with you.

“She didn’t seem to be nearly as angry as she usually is,” you note.

“She probably needs a new upgrade.” At your bewildered look, Michael elaborates. “The real Ms. Mead was taken from me by some enemies who believed that killing her would give them the chance to ‘convert’ me to good. The Ms. Mead you see today, and that you saw the night of our wedding, is an AI copy.”

“Holy shit, she’s a robot?”

Michael cringes at the term, but nods. “Yes, basically.”

A flurry of activity signifies that the Cooperative is ready for the son of their Lord to make his grand entrance. Michael looks you over once more, waiting until he’s absolutely sure that you’re ready to face his followers before he nods once to signal that you’re both ready. The voices that fill the room spill out once the doors are opened, Michael giving you hardly a moment to get nervous before walking in with you.

The voices fall silent when the doors open, eyes cast eagerly to Michael and, by extension, you. There’s two long tables that stretch the length of the room, chairs on either side of each one. A smaller table sits raised on a platform at the other end of the room, just big enough for two ornate chairs. Michael squeezes your hand, providing a much-needed grounding tool as you try not to look like your eyes are darting around the room. 

Michael was right about some of the Cooperative members; their silver masks reflect the light of the room off of the surface, their entire faces obscured from view. Some of the members who decide not to mask their identity are not surprising to see here (you’re pretty sure you would have been more surprised if Donald Trump  _ wasn’t _ a member of the Cooperative), but others make you internally squeal from excitement. Although Jared Leto’s always seemed like an intense guy, you didn’t think he was the type of person to have sold his soul to the Devil. 

The room remains standing until you and Michael have taken your places at the table in front of everyone. Even after they sit, Michael’s firm hand keeps you from taking a seat. If he’s standing, you guess you’re standing as well. 

To anybody watching from afar, Michael’s face is unreadable. Having spent so much time with him, however, you watch as something akin to a mask descends across his features. The Michael that you know--awkward, easily excited, and passionate to a fault--is gone, replaced by someone distant, perpetually angry, who knows for a fact that everyone here is beneath him. 

“Welcome, esteemed members of the Cooperative. We are gathered here tonight at the request of my father, who wishes for me to convey to you his plans as we move ever closer to our end goal. As many of you are aware, plans are being drawn up for the Outposts and the Sanctuary, which is where everyone here, along with others who we deem valuable to the continuation of life on Earth, will ride out the end of the world.”

At this, you feel the blood run from your face. Although you’ve known that Michael, as the Antichrist, had plans to end the world on behalf of Satan, it’s jarring to hear him talk about it so plainly. If you’re being honest, you had almost forgotten that the apocalypse was a thing. After getting over being kidnapped to be his bride, you and Michael have become friends. Plus, it’s not as if he talks about Armageddon in front of you. This is the first you’re hearing, in detail, of his plans.

Next to you, Michael is still talking. “--I encourage you all to not worry too much, as we still have a couple of years, at least, until the world can be remade in Satan’s image with the cleansing fire of nuclear bombs. I imagine you may have a few questions. If they are not ignorant, answers you can learn from your colleagues, or flat-out stupid, then please feel free to ask.”

There’s a small murmur from the crowd as Cooperative members converse about the timeline, Michael narrowing his eyes at those in front of him. A couple of people raise their hands, asking questions about fortifications and possible side effects of fallout, which Michael answers effortlessly. It seems as though he’s been prepped on these possible questions, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if this was stuff he just inherently knew.

“Last, before you return to your cocktails and various material pleasures,” Michael squeezes your hand, and you look at him before realizing he wants you to be a part of whatever he’s saying, “my father had revealed to me a woman, who was meant to serve as my consort and stand by my side. Eight months ago, his wish was fulfilled when I married (Y/N), who stands here with me today. Everything else regarding our coupling is none of your goddamn business. Anything else?”

The room is dead silent, everyone being too petrified of their savior to even think of saying anything.

“Wonderful. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening with the bounties that Satan has provided us.” It takes a moment for the room to go back to normal, but you let out a sigh of relief when all of the pairs of eyes are off of you.

“Can we sit down now?” you whisper to Michael, who immediately nods and pulls your chair out for you.

“What did you think?” Michael’s eyes are wide and eager for your approval.

“If I didn’t know you, I would have been terrified of you.”

Michael smiles. “Good, that’s what I was going for.”

“Whoa, is that--” you’re ready to point out two very prominent celebrities doing coke off of each other when Michael shakes his head.

“Remember, these people are beneath you. You can be excited but don’t show it.”

“Fine,” you huff, “but why are people just doing drugs and kissing each other? That seems a little too crazy, even for a room full of Satanist celebrities.”

“Satan preaches giving into any of your desires. Even if it’s material things that only provide fleeting moments of what they believe to be pleasure, my father encourages it. I don’t enjoy watching these activities take place at every single Cooperative meeting, but as long as it doesn’t get out of hand, I don’t put a stop to it.”

There’s so many more questions that you want to ask him about the members of the Cooperative, but a couple of those said members approaching the table to pay their respects to the Antichrist cuts the conversation short. You play the part of the dutiful wife for Michael, greeting his followers and listening to the dull conversations of people starstruck to be in front of their messiah. It’s extremely easy to get overwhelmed in a situation like this, and you seize your chance during a slight lull after nearly an hour of talking to people.

“Michael,” you say gently, “I’m going to go and get some air.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just wanna go outside for a minute and check my phone.” Michael nods, kissing the back of your hand before letting go so that you can stand up. 

The lobby’s much less crowded than the room you just came out of; a few stray Cooperative members linger and wait staff are in and out, but other than that you’re basically alone. You already feel like you can breathe again, a weight being lifted off of your chest now that you’re away from so many curious, intimidating people. Feeling how cold it is outside, you adapt your original plan and choose to sit on one of the benches inside instead.

There’s not much going on this Friday night, you notice as you check your phone. Everybody’s still getting back into the swing of school, and most of your friends opted to stay in and treat themselves instead of going out. You wish you were at home right now, snuggled up in a large blanket with your cat curled up next to you.

(You ignore the thought of Michael being there too, sitting on the other end of the couch and trying to get the cat to sit by him instead of you).

“Drink, ma’am?” Looking up from your phone, you see a waitress smiling and holding a tray with a single drink on it out towards you.

“Oh, I don’t know.” You’re unsure of what to do, Michael not having instructed you on whether you could or couldn’t drink at this event.

“It’s our house special tonight! And as you can see, it’s the last one I have.”

The drink, a red cocktail in a tall glass, does look pretty appealing, and one drink would surely help you to get through the rest of the night. “Mm, might as well! It’s only one drink, and I’m not a lightweight.”

Laughing lightly, the waitress hands you the cocktail. “Enjoy!”

“Thank you!” 

She turns the corner, which means you’re not able to see as her eyes turn pitch black and her body starts convulsing. The waitress collapses to the ground as black smoke pours out of her mouth, ears, and nose, dissipating into the air just as quickly as it left her body. After a moment, the waitress stands back up, looking extremely disoriented as she grabs her tray and unsteadily walks towards the kitchen.

Sniffing the cocktail to make sure you’re not downing something especially disgusting, you’re instead greeted by the pleasant scent of cinnamon and apples. You shrug before taking a hesitant sip, happily finding that the drink tastes just as good as it smells. It’s almost better than any other cocktail you’ve previously tried, and you find yourself thinking that you’ll have to find the waitress and ask her for the name of this cocktail as you continue to consume the addictive drink. You’re enjoying your moment of solitude, sitting on your phone and enjoying a drink, so much that you don’t realize something’s wrong until it’s too late.

 It starts with a slight ache in your head, followed by a ringing in your ears that begins to drown out any background noise. You feel dizzy, and drop your phone so you can place a hand on the bench to steady yourself. Your eyes can’t focus on anything, the walls seeming to morph in front of you as you close your eyes to assuage the nausea.

“Was I drugged?” you mutter to yourself, attempting to stand up but barely straightening your legs before you fall back down to your seat. “Maybe I should find Michael.”

The moment you think of Michael, it’s as if explosions start to rock your brain. You can’t think, and the ringing in your ears reverberates until it’s the only thing you can hear. All of your senses are gone, replaced by the pain of a thousand jackhammers in your head.

The explosions disappear just as quickly as they appeared, leaving you confused and disoriented. Everything feels off, like the world’s tilted before righting itself once more, but overcorrecting in the process. Trying to remember what you were doing before your sudden headache, the only thing you can come up with is Michael.

The name brings a smile to your face as your heart starts to beat quickly. Michael, the love of your life and your other half. What are you doing out here, when he’s in there by himself? You stand to return to him, the entire time not being able to shake the feeling that something’s extremely wrong.


	14. Bad Apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when it seems as if Michael’s getting everything he’s ever wanted, it becomes too good to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You see what I did there with the title? Eh? Eh? Welcome to the newest chapter of Mad Love! Buckle up friends, this is going to be a wild one. Seriously though, I’m not sure how I feel about this chapter or if I crammed too much in, so actual constructive feedback would be appreciated. If you enjoyed, I would love if you left a kudos or a comment. There is a content warning for sexual situations under possible dubcon conditions, but I promise it will be okay. Happy reading!

Michael senses you before he sees you. He’s thankful for this certain gift of his, not able to take his attention away from the dull conversation between two contentious world leaders. You were gone just long enough to start making him worry that something bad had happened to you; with the witches still determined to destroy him, anything that Michael holds dear is now in danger. You slide into the chair next to Michael, gripping his hand as he finishes discussing the logistics of various nuclear arsenals located around the world. The tight hold that you have on him makes Michael wonder if something scared you when you were getting some air, and he makes a mental note to ask Ms. Mead to check the security feeds to ensure that nobody or nothing gave you a hard time when you were alone.

“Finally,” you mutter into Michael’s ear when the impromptu meeting is concluded, “I thought they’d never leave.”

He stiffens when you kiss his jawline, making your way down his face until you reach his lips. “(Y/N), are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. Is it so bad for me to kiss you every once in a while?”

“Well no, but you’ve made--”

“I could stop, if you don’t like it,” you tease, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“It’s not that I don’t like it, I’m just surprised you’ve changed your mind.” You shrug in response, laying one more kiss on him before settling back in your chair and lifting your glass up to your smirking lips.

The remainder of the event passes by dreadfully slow, with the only entertainment the chaste touches Michael shares with you. He hasn’t kept too watchful of an eye on you, which means you probably had one too many drinks that have made you a giggling, affectionate mess. You haven’t left his side since you returned, something that pleases Michael immensely. This is how it should be, and this is how he hopes it remains.

“Seriously, how much have you had to drink tonight?” Michael asks in the car, smiling as you cuddle into his arms that are wrapped around you.

“I already told you, I only had one!”

“You don’t have to be scared to tell me, (Y/N).”

You smile up at him from where your head is leaning against his chest. “Michael, I promise that I’m telling you the truth. Now just be quiet and hold me.”

“I’m happy to oblige.” Michael closes his eyes, placing his chin on the top of your head. If he could, he would want nothing more than to bottle this moment up so that he can return to it whenever he wishes.

The manor is silent when Michael enters with you, the closing of the door echoing through the foyer that you had descended into mere hours prior. It almost feels like you’re in an extended dream state, every sense seeming warm and fuzzy ever since...since...well, you can’t remember what since, but you know that this feeling is associated with Michael, and that makes you want to bask in this feeling forever. Michael’s smile shines brightly, reminding you--as if you could ever forget--of just how much you love him. It feels as if your heart is beating solely for Michael, every blue-eyed glance he sends your way sets your heart thumping wildly. 

_ Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. _

_ Mi-chael. Mi-chael. Mi-chael. _

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” Michael says, stirring you out of your reverie. 

He leads you up the winding staircase and down the hall to your bedroom, the door opening to reveal the twinkling fairy lights that you strung up when you first moved in. Standing back from Michael, you slowly close the door behind both of you. He turns around to check on you, but you meet him with a kiss before allowing him the opportunity to question you.

“What are you doing?” Michael mutters against your lips, weaving an arm around your waist and pulling you closer to him.

“Kissing you.” Michael bites your bottom lip, making you gasp.

“And doing it very well, I might add.” You lean your forehead against his, shoulders heaving as you catch your breath.

“Michael, I want you.” You walk with Michael back towards the bed, falling onto the soft mattress.

“Oh,” he breathes, almost not believing what he’s heard. “Are you sure?”

“I can’t keep up the charade of not wanting you anymore.” Michael’s large hand goes to the strap of your dress, sliding it down your arm so that he can caress your bare shoulder. 

“Promise me that you’re sober,” he pleads earnestly. “I will not take advantage of you if you’re not.”

“I’ve already told you that I barely had anything to drink tonight.” You push stray strands of golden hair out of Michael’s face, gazing up at him. “ _ Please _ .”

Michael kisses you hungrily, hands roving up and down the planes of your body. Your head falls back against the pillows as you let out a quiet hum at the feeling of his full lips against your skin. It’s wonderful, like everything you’ve ever dreamt it would be. Michael sits up with you, unzipping your dress and letting it pool around your waist. Michael skillfully unclasps your strapless bra, hands cupping your breasts roughly as you quickly fumble through unbuttoning his shirt. He nearly throws you back against the pillows once more, and you cry out in anticipation.

“I love you!” you gasp, eyes screwed shut as he tweaks one of your nipples between his fingers.

Michael stills, sitting back on the heels of his feet in shock. “W-what?”

“I love you, Michael,” you say earnestly. “I’m sorry for being so stubborn and rejecting you. I was just scared. I love you, and I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone or anything. 

“If I was dying of thirst in a desert and had to pick between a deep pool of water or a mirage of you, I’d pick my hallucination. You’ve loved me endlessly and faithfully since the day we were married. I’ve failed as your wife in the past, but I won’t anymore because I love you, and I’m not afraid to admit it now.”

Michael stares at you in disbelief, his hand almost shaking as he presses it against your cheek. You lean into his touch, kissing the palm of his hand and looking at him with the same sleepy eyes as before.

He pauses when he looks at your eyes, staring into them with suspicion. This entire night has seemed too good to be true, and he’s starting to worry that he’s right.

“(Y/N),” Michael says cautiously, “tell me what you did when you left to go and get some fresh air.”

You groan. “Seriously?”

“Please, my love.”

“Fine,” you agree begrudgingly. “I...went to go and sit on a bench, because it was too cold to actually go outside. I was checking my phone when a waitress came up to me, and then--”

Michael stares at you as you furrow your eyebrows in concentration. “And then what?”

“I--I can’t remember. She gave me something, maybe a drink?” You rub your forehead, fighting off a sudden headache. “I think it was a cocktail. And then, the next thing I remember is sitting back down next to you.”

“And that was the only drink you had today?”

You nod. “It was pretty good, actually. It tasted like apples and cinnamon.”

Michael’s never been on a roller coaster before, but the oft-repeated simile of your heart and stomach dropping dramatically right before the roller coaster drops as well is one he thinks could apply to how he feels right now. His face pales, the smile he had previously been sporting falling to a frown. Apples. How could he have been so stupid as to let you be on your own mere  _ weeks _ after Satan had attempted to “clear” your mind?

Now, he’s faced with a decision that he hoped he wouldn’t have to encounter again. The drink, his father’s work, has done what was promised. You love him unconditionally, and isn’t that all that he’s wanted since he first laid eyes on you? But he knows this isn’t you talking, not really. It may be your voice, but this is not you.

He stands from the bed, buttoning his shirt back up. You look up at him in confusion, crawling towards him as he looks away from you.

“Put your clothes back on, (Y/N),” Michael mutters.

“What? Michael, what’s wrong?”

“My father is what’s wrong.”

Mild disgust crosses your face. “I mean, while I’m certainly thankful that your father created us for each other, I don’t see why you’re thinking about him when we’re about to have sex for the first time.”

“ _ That’s _ the problem!” Michael exclaims, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “(Y/N) wouldn’t say nice things about Satan.”

“I’m confused, am I suddenly not myself?” You don’t bother to put your bra back on, but you do slide the straps of your dress over your shoulders once more.

“Say something mean about me,” Michael demands. “If you’re not under the influence of Satan, give me a snide remark about how I always look like I’m going to a Renaissance Faire or something similar.”

You stare at him for a long moment. “I--I can’t, I  _ wouldn’t _ .”

“Yes, you would! And you do! Yesterday you said that I act like someone is holding me hostage whenever we go out in public and then proceeded to tell me to blink once if I was being threatened.”

You grab Michael’s hand, trying to get him to look at you. “And I shouldn’t have said that to you, it was rude and uncalled for.”

“See,” Michael finally turns around, “that’s how I know you’re under Satan’s influence. You show your affection by sarcastic comments, and you would have appreciated your so-called ‘genius’ with that particular jab.”

“It was the only way I knew how to deal with my feelings! But I’m over that now, because I--”

“ _ Don’t say it _ ,” Michael commands sharply. He sits next to you with a heavy sigh, defeatedly allowing you to move his arm around your body. “I’m sorry, (Y/N). I’m so, so sorry.”

You smile sadly. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“It’s all my fault,” he mutters to himself. “I...I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to fix this.”

“How to fix what?”

“How to undo this magic.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about, but you can’t bare to see him so distraught. “Well, you’re always talking about the witches. Maybe they could help?”

“No.” Michael shakes his head. “No matter how much trouble we’re in, I could never ask the witches. They would kill me.”

“Surely there’s other people who use magic?” Michael nods slowly, lost in thought as he tries to think of a solution.

“Give me one second.” He reaches for his phone, unlocking it and searching for a number. You watch as he holds the phone to his ear and waits for the person on the other end to pick up, admiring the way his hair is perfectly, effortlessly curled.

“Dinah, thank you for picking up. I know I promised that I was only going to need a single favor from you, but I need your help again.” He pauses, listening intently. “I understand, and we can negotiate compensation for you upon completing what I ask of you.”

“Who are you talking to?” you whisper, but he ignores you.

“I’ll send you the address, can you be here within twenty minutes? Yes, okay.” Michael pulls the phone away from his face and hangs up.

“Is everything okay?”

Michael smiles, running a hand through your hair. “It will be. An acquaintance of mine will be coming over in a few minutes; why don’t you go and put on some non-formal clothes before she arrives?”

“Will you help me get undressed?” You bat your eyelashes at him in an obvious attempt to pick up where he left off. 

“No, (Y/N). You’re perfectly capable of changing your own clothes.” You stand up, shrugging. 

“Oh well, it was worth a try.” Michael allows you to kiss him, his head only falling into his hands after you leave.

Exactly twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings. The emerald green dress has been replaced by a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt from high school. Michael’s version of “dressed down” is wearing a soft long-sleeved black shirt and forgoing the Gucci belt he was wearing, but that’s expected.

Michael opens the door, revealing a shorter woman with a colorful head scarf tied around her styled afro. She smiles thinly at him, setting a large bag down on the floor.

“Michael,” she greets, holding a hand out for him to shake.

“Dinah.” It’s when Michael says her name that it finally clicks for you.

“Holy shit, you’re Dinah Stevens!” She smiles bashfully, but you can tell that she loves the notoriety.

“In the flesh.”

“Michael, your colleague is a talk show host?” you ask in confusion, Dinah clicking her tongue in disdain.

“I’m  _ also  _ the voodoo queen of New Orleans, thank you very much.”

“Did you have a chance to read the information I sent you?” Michael questions, done with pleasantries.

“Yes, baby Satan.”

You tilt your head in confusion. “What information?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.” Dinah looks at you. 

“You don’t get to decide that for her,” Michael says through gritted teeth. “(Y/N), it seems that my father may be influencing your mind. Dinah’s here to help us.” You nod, but you feel like you’re not as concerned as you should be. After all, you’re with Michael, and nothing can harm you when you’re with Michael.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Dinah steers the conversation back to the reason why she’s here in the first place.

You shrug. “Yeah, fire away.”

“Let’s continue this conversation in my office,” Michael gestures upstairs, leading your small trio to the spacious office on the second floor. Dinah takes a seat in front of the desk, with you sitting in a chair next to her as Michael sits behind the desk.

“(Y/N), do you remember what the waitress said to you when she handed you the drink?” Dinah begins her questioning once everybody’s seated.

“Uh, she had told me that it was the house special and that it was the last one she had. I figured one drink wouldn’t be too bad, especially since I was nervous, so I took it.”

“Mhm, and do you remember Michael’s followers kidnapping you and forcing you to marry him?” Michael winces at the reminder: although Dinah had warned him that she was going to be blunt in an attempt to see just how much Satan’s spell covered, it still stings.

“Well yes, but it was really the only way. I mean, can you imagine me doing that willingly? It had to happen the way that it did.”

“Okay. What happened after you drank the cocktail?”

The same pained expression as before appears on your face as you try to think. “I don’t know. Everytime I try to remember, my head just hurts really bad.”

Dinah chews her bottom lip, thinking. “Gimme your hands.”

You look at Michael in concern, but he nods that it’s okay to do so. When Dinah does grab your hands, her eyes go wide. The dark brown of her iris is replaced by an electric blue, and though it looks like she’s staring at you, you can tell that she’s staring right through you. After a couple of minutes, she lets go of your hands with a gasp, panting at the exertion.

“So?” Michael asks eagerly, barely letting Dinah regain her bearings. “Can the spell be reversed?”

“Ah ah ah!” Dinah chides, wagging a finger at Michael. “I believe you mentioned something about a payment?”

Michael huffs. “Fucking voodoo queens, you’re all the same.” She raises her eyebrows in response; challenging him. “Name your price.”

“I want Marie Laveau’s old territory, in the heart of the French Quarter,” Dinah demands with hardly a moment’s hesitation.

“You know Papa Legba does not take too kindly to me broaching his domains.”

“Nobody said that you had to step foot in New Orleans.”

The two powerful beings stare each other down, both daring the other to relent. Finally, Michael sighs. “Consider it done.”

Dinah’s chin raises victoriously. “What do you have in terms of potion ingredients?”

“Say the word, and it will be at your disposal.”

The voodoo queen waits for Michael to produce a cauldron-like bucket, pulling a weathered book out of her bag once he’s set the large bowl on the ground. “Let’s get to work.”

Michael and Dinah work in tandem, the voodoo queen (she had reprimanded you for referring to her as a witch) calling out different ingredients and the Antichrist conjuring them for her. Some, like anise and lavender, are commonly found in nature and thus familiar to you. Others, such as wormwood and twice-blessed water, you had believed to be purely used in fiction. You’re fine with watching the two figure this out on their own, knowing that you’re nowhere near useful in this particular situation.

“Are you sure it’s safe for me to drink something that contains  _ human blood _ ?” Your nose crinkles in disgust as Michael slices his hand open, the blood dripping into the boiling mixture.

“Safer than you drinking a cocktail made specially by Satan,” Dinah quips, gesturing for Michael to stand back as she starts to chant. 

You don’t know what language she’s speaking in, but you do catch the name “ _ Papa Legba _ ,” the man (demon? You’re not sure) that Michael had referenced earlier, repeatedly. Dinah comes to a stop just as quickly as she started, stirring the mixture once more before nodding.

“It’s done,” Dinah says. “The reversal of the darkest kind of magic will be painful, more painful than what I believe the original effect of that magic was on (Y/N). I’ve mixed a sleeping draught in; hopefully, this means that she’ll feel minimal pain.”

Dinah pours the potion into a glass and hands it to Michael, who looks at the dark purple liquid apprehensively. “And you’re sure this will work?”

“You’re really going to question my skills  _ now _ ?” Dinah raises an eyebrow, and Michael shakes his head meekly. “That’s what I thought. Call me if something bad happens, or if nothing happens. I’ll expect payment by Monday.”

“Thank you, Dinah. Truly, you have no idea how much I appreciate this.” She chooses not to respond, instead gathering her belongings and moving past Michael and out the door.

“A woman of few words,” you remark, drifting towards Michael. “You’re gonna make me drink that, aren’t you? Even though I don’t want to? Even though we both have everything we’ve ever wanted now?”

Michael closes his eyes tightly, gathering his nerve before taking your hand and walking with you to your bedroom. He’s never really felt much empathy for the first humans to walk the Earth. Adam and Eve were weak, and easily susceptible to sin. They knew the consequences, yet accepted the apple anyways. Michael thrives off of sinners, and had previously seen their decision to give in as easy. Now, however, tempted with his heart’s desires standing right in front of him, he understands why they were torn in two when deciding whether to give in or resist.

“I’m doing this because I love you, (Y/N). On your own time, and in your own way, maybe one day I’ll be lucky enough to be loved by you in the same way. But not like this. I’m sorry that this had to happen to you, and that I dragged you into my fucked up, mess of a life. You deserve better than what I can give you.”

“You give me what you’re capable of, and that’s enough for me.” Your head is killing you, screaming to fight back and refuse to take the potion that the voodoo queen concocted, but you push through for Michael. Which version of you is pushing through, the you that’s under the influence of Satan or the you that Michael loves, you’re not quite sure.

Michael helps you into your bed, making sure that you’re completely comfortable before perching on the edge of the mattress. “I’ll be right here the entire time, I promise. You won’t go through this alone.”

“I love you, Michael,” you say earnestly, taking the glass that he hands you as he smiles forlornly.

“I know you do. It may be a different form, but I know. Now, drink up.” He watches as you lift the glass to your mouth, your muscles tensing as you fight Satan’s influence to do as Michael says (something that Michael takes a small amount of pride in).

At first, nothing happens. You feel the exact same as you have, albeit a little wary as you wait for something to happen. Michael’s confused as well, but he still has a reassuring smile on his face to keep you from freaking out. You both wait until a sharp pain in your chest makes you gasp loudly, the last thing you feel before going under.


	15. The Weight of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinah’s potion goes to work as Michael ponders his decisions and his relationships with those he cares for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra long chapter to make up for the length between the previous chapter and this one!   
> Hi friends, happy new year and welcome to another chapter of Mad Love. Don't tell Tumblr, but you're getting this an hour earlier than them. Feedback is appreciated, and I'd love if you left a kudos or comment if you enjoyed this!

If Michael’s in agony from merely watching the effects of Dinah’s potion on you, he can’t imagine the agony that you’re experiencing. Although the voodoo queen had mixed a powerful sleeping draught in with the hopes of making the process easier, Satan’s power can easily overwhelm even the strongest of magic users. It’s engulfed Cordelia Goode, Supreme of the witches, as well as Dinah. Michael, too, has found himself bowing to his father’s whims like a flimsy tree branch in a summer storm. For you, a mortal with no remarkable powers, removing Satan’s magic from your mind and body is especially difficult.

There are periods where it looks as if you’re peacefully sleeping, but those are few and far between for the twelve hours that you lie unconscious. Michael refuses to leave your side, even when it seems his heart is being physically torn from his chest from your agonizing screams that pierce the air and the way you thrash on the bed as if tormented from a nightmare that you can’t wake up from. He wants nothing more than to take your pain away, and it tears him apart to know that he can’t. It especially hurts to know that he’s the cause of this pain: not only because you’re his wife, but because he’s the one who got fed up and went to Satan in the first place. Michael doesn’t even know what’s truly going on in your mind, Satan’s wards still clouding any of the thoughts that were once so easy for him to pick up on. 

Somewhere, deep within the recesses of your mind that Satan was not able to lay claim to, you note that you’ll have to thank Dinah for the potency of her potion. You also decide that, if you survive this, you’re going to march yourself down to Hell and give Satan the beating of a lifetime. Although there are times where you are genuinely asleep, they are rare. All you feel is pain. A blinding pain that makes it feel as if every nerve in your body has ignited into flames that are persistent, yet slow-burning. 

Being burned alive from the inside out, however, doesn’t compare to what you’re sure is your brain tearing itself apart. The potion and Satan’s influence are waging a nuclear war in your mind, attempting to restore your psyche and mold it to the will of an foreign entity, respectively. It’s almost like you’re a ragdoll that’s being tugged between two petulant children, nearly losing an arm while having no say in what’s going on.

There are times where you almost believe that you can hear Michael crying, pleading with you to come back to him. While it’s a nice thought, the Antichrist begging, you believe it to be simply a pain-induced delusion. After all, the demons that dance in your head and burn you at the stake, the seven-headed monsters rising out of the sea and devouring you whole, the inky blackness that envelops you and leaves you blind to find the source of the deep, otherworldly laughter that rings in your ears for hours and hours; those are delusions, mere imagination working your pain into farcical scenarios. What’s more farcical than Michael Langdon crying and begging?

Just as suddenly as you were pulled into the waves by the sharp pain in your chest, you’re thrust back onto the shore with one last jolt of pain. Your eyes open slowly, cautious of any of the creatures that your mind had conjured up journeying with you back to the land of the living. The first thing that you notice upon your vision clearing is Michael.

He’s sitting in a chair next to you, head down on the mattress and hands clasping tightly onto your left hand. It looks as if he’s asleep, but he immediately sits up upon feeling your fingers flex within his grip. His eyes are wide and glassy, dark circles under his eyes completing the look. His beautiful blond locks are disheveled, and you would make a joke about interrupting his beauty sleep were it not for the confusion you’re experiencing right now.

“(Y/N),” Michael breathes, not believing his own eyes. “How--how are you feeling?”

“I’m...I’m feeling,” you’re about to say ‘okay,’ but the unexpected lurching of your stomach erases that thought, “like I’m going to throw up,” you gasp, sheer will keeping you from puking all over the blankets on the bed.

Thankfully, Michael does not think twice before producing a bucket out of thin air and placing it in your lap. You clutch at it like one would clutch a life preserver while bobbing in the middle of an ocean, your knuckles going white from the strain as you lean over the bucket and proceed to lose the contents of your stomach.

As Michael keeps your hair pulled away from your face with one hand while using the other to rub circles on your back, you’re struck with the similarity between this and the occasion where you threw up just outside of the Murder House’s property. You’re still invariably confused, but the comfort of Michael’s presence helps to ease the confusion as you continue to throw up until you have nothing left.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter between gasps of air, looking at Michael with a flushed face and watery eyes.

“This is a good thing. It means that your body is fully rejecting any sort of hold that Satan has over you.” 

Once it seems that your vomiting has stopped, with nothing left in you for your body to expel, a simple wave of Michael’s hand is all that it takes to send the now-ruined bucket back to wherever it came from. He helps ease you back against the pillows, pressing a damp cloth to your forehead to help cool your burning skin. 

“Michael,” you ask, “what happened?”

He chooses to ignore your question, instead handing you a water bottle. “You need to drink some water.”

You comply, considering you’re actually very thirsty and your throat burns from the bile that crawled its way up. Drinking half the bottle in a few quick seconds, you look expectantly at Michael. “Happy?”

“I am now.”

“Tell me what happened.” It’s difficult to try and force Michael to do something that he does not want to do, and you almost think he’s going to change the subject once again before he places his hand on top of yours.

“What’s the last thing you really remember?”

“Going to your Cooperative event. After that, everything just feels like some weird, vague dream.” Dread slowly seizes at your heart. “You’re scaring me. What happened at the event?”

“It...seems as though Satan managed to influence your mind. You had left to go and get some air, although I don’t know if you remember that.”

“Vaguely.”

“While you were out there, a waitress, who was possessed by my father, gave you a drink that he had, for lack of a better word, poisoned. It’s my fault; I should have been more vigilant, especially after what had happened with Satan making his displeasure obvious to you.”

“What did he do to me?” Your voice comes out as a mere whisper, and you’re a little worried that you might throw up again.

“He,” Michael’s voice breaks, and he takes a moment to compose himself, “actually, you know what? Say something mean about me.”

You can’t help but look at him like he’s crazy. “ _What?_ ”

“Say something mean about me! You already do it unprompted, so this shouldn’t be an issue now.”

“Okay, first of all, I would hardly say that they’re ‘mean.’ I prefer to call them well-timed, mini-masterpieces of the English language. Second,” a slow grin spreads across your face, “your sleep deprivation must be affecting more than just your looks, because I’m pretty sure you’ve officially lost all of your marbles if you’re  _asking_  me to come up with verbal barbs.”

With a choked laugh that sounds like it’s mixed with a sob, Michael lunges onto the bed and wraps you in his arms. Somehow, you’re even more confused than you were when you first woke up, but you welcome the change in his demeanor.

“Aw, you finally learned how to hug.” Michael squeezes you tighter, and now you’re laughing too, although you’re not sure why  _either_  of you are laughing.

“I’ve never been so pleased to hear you make jokes at my expense.” He pulls away from you while still keeping hold of your arms. “(Y/N), Satan took hold of your mind. Basically, for lack of a better term, he slipped you a glorified love potion.”

“A...love potion?” He nods. “How did you find out?”

“You were very affectionate, and originally I had assumed that you had consumed too much alcohol.”

“That does sound like something I would do when drunk.”

“It was only when you, um, attempted to seduce me and subsequently confessed your love to me that I figured out that something was wrong.”

“Oh no, did we--”

“No! No, we did not.” Suddenly, the odd scenes from what you originally thought to be an unexpected dream, flashes of hands tugging down the strap of your dress and soft lips pressed against your skin, make sense.

“But we made it to second base.”

“We...didn’t play baseball?”

“Oh my god, you are  _actually_  going to kill me.” Rolling your eyes, you sigh heavily. “Second base is--” Michael’s wide, innocent eyes make you feel like you would be the dirtiest person alive for saying that second base is groping, so you choose to mime groping invisible breasts with your hands.

Predictably, Michael turns red. “Oh. Then yes, second base, but no further. Before we could...make it to third--”

“Stop with the baseball innuendos,” you groan.

“After I had removed your bra is when you very passionately told me that you were in love with me. That’s when I stopped.”

There’s so many questions running through your head, but you can’t fully decide on where to start, so you just nod. Michael can tell that you’re attempting to get a grip, and blessedly gives you time. He silently pushes you to drink more water, which you absentmindedly do as you pick at a stray thread on your blanket before finally figuring out a good starting point. “How did you snap me out of it?”

“I called in a favor from a friend of mine.”

“Wait, Dinah Stevens wasn’t just a figment of my imagination?” That was one of the more fanatical parts of what had convinced you was a wild dream. After all, a daytime television queen showing up in the middle of the night has to be something made up.

“No, she was not. Dinah also happens to be the voodoo queen of New Orleans. She made a potion to help counteract and remove the poison that Satan had given you. As of right now, it looks like it worked.”

“Hopefully. I  _feel_  like me.” Michael, always able to tell what’s on your mind, remains silent. “Michael?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you call Dinah in the first place?”

“I’m not nearly as powerful as my father, and Dinah has extra power and preternatural beings at her disposal. Think of it as a loophole past Satan’s powers.”

“Okay, that’s cool, but also not what I meant. You...you’ve wanted me to be as in love with you as you are with me since the day we met. According to you, we’re fucking soulmates. You got what you wanted! I mean, according to you, I loved you unconditionally. Why did you give that up?”

“You’re right. I finally had everything I wanted. And I will admit to you that, before I realized what my father had done and you were telling me that you loved me, there was a moment where I was just so thrilled. It felt like all of my dreams were finally coming true. But when you looked at me with your eyes, clouded with the haze of what I’ve come to know as my father’s hold on unwilling subjects, I just--” Michael cuts himself off, standing up from your bed and running a hand over his jaw as he walks towards the opposite wall.

“Michael.” Your voice comes out softly, and you shakily stand up from the bed to check on him. “Hey, it’s okay. You can talk to me.” He flinches when you put your hand on his shoulder, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“You weren’t  _you_  anymore.” He whirls around, and you can finally see just how broken this experience has made him. Michael’s eyes are rimmed red, like he’s been crying on and off for a while now. His hair is frizzy, as if his hands have ran through it one too many times. You notice that his hands shake when he holds onto your arms; all signs of an extremely haggard Michael. “All of the things that I love about you--your spirit, your devotion to the people and things you care about, your wit that somehow manages to simultaneously piss me off and endear me to you even more, and how, no matter what, you don’t give up--those were taken away when Satan meddled with your mind.”

“It’s not your fault, Michael.”

He doesn’t hear you. “You’re the only thing in my life that doesn’t have to do with my father. You’re pure, in that aspect. He couldn’t touch you, and I think that’s what made it so easy to fall in love with, not just the idea of you, but the real you. The version of you that my father believes is perfect for me--some Satan-loving bride who lives only to please me--terrified me. It wasn’t  _you_. I’ll take you barging into my office and calling me ‘Mikey’ over what I saw last night every time.”

Not a single word comes to mind as Michael explains his reasoning to you. You can’t decide if you should hit him for getting you into this mess in the first place or if you should thank him for getting you out of said mess. Overwhelmingly, however, you’re struck with the realization that Michael, who has been controlled by Satan his whole life, deliberately went against his father’s wishes. If this would have happened at the beginning of your marriage--if the bonding ritual the night of your wedding would have worked--there’s no doubt in your mind that he would have been ecstatic. Most likely, you would still be under whatever thrall was meant to be put on you then. Now, the dynamic between you two has changed immensely, and you’re not quite sure if that’s good or bad.

“You…” you trail off, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

Michael awkwardly clears his throat, not used to sharing vulnerability with anyone. “You should lay back down. You went through a lot, and you need to rest.”

“But I--” A buzzing sound cuts you off, and you glance around the room in confusion.

“Oh!” Crossing over to your nightstand, Michael holds up your charged phone. “Your phone’s been going off pretty often. Obviously, I wasn’t going to check your notifications or respond to any messages, but I did see that your friend Mallory had texted a couple of times.”

With no choice but to crawl back into bed (an appealing option, if you’re being honest), you take your phone from Michael and begin to scroll. You don’t really care about the social media notifications, but you have a shocking amount of texts. There’s a couple from your mother, complimenting your dress from last night and asking if you had fun. You’ve been as vague as possible about Michael, but couldn’t resist showing off how beautiful the dress was. 

The majority of the messages, however, come from Mallory and Kate. You let them know that you were going to an event as Michael’s strictly-platonic date and, naturally, they had freaked out. Up until you had been poisoned by Satan, you had been diligently providing them with the requested updates. Naturally, going completely silent had driven your two friends crazy. There’s at least ten messages from each, and that’s not to mention the group chat. 

“Are you hungry?” Michael asks, once again doing that weird thing where he senses your needs before you even know what they are.

“Yes, actually.”

“I’ll go see what the staff has made.” It feels a little strange to be alone for the first time in almost a day, so you busy yourself with responding to the group chat instead.

_“Sorry for not responding, I ended up eating something bad and getting food poisoning :( Thanks for checking in on me, though.”_

It’s barely a minute later before Mallory responds to you,  _“so...no kissing?”_

While you definitely did a little more than kissing last night, you’re not going to tell them that. Before you can text back, Kate replies,  _“lmao why does that remind me of the guy who says ‘so no head?’”_

 _“No, no kissing,”_  you text.

_“Well shit.”_

_“Are you feeling better, though?”_  Mallory asks.

 _“I’m getting there.”_ You feel bad for having to be so ambiguous with two of your closest friends, but it’s dangerous for them to know any more.

_“Do you want us to come by? Friends are the best cure for food poisoning.”_

You let the text go unanswered, setting your phone down next to you as you think about Mallory’s offer. While you would love to have your friends come over, you can’t help but to wonder if inviting them over would invoke more questions than answers. You haven’t exactly told them that you’re living with Michael, and they would inevitably end up freaking out about both that and the size of the home in which you are now living.

Michael pushes the door back open, holding a tray with two steaming bowls on it. “There was soup downstairs, I hope that’s okay.”

“That’s perfectly fine.” He hands you a bowl before sitting down next to you with his own.

“You didn’t miss any important messages from your friends, then?”

“No. It was easy enough to tell anyone that asked that I had food poisoning.” You take a sip of the soup, cursing the kitchen staff for their amazing cooking skills that they most likely acquired after selling their souls to Satan. “But…”

“Yes?”

“Kate and Mallory want to come over to see me.”

“I don’t see a problem with that,” Michael says, a clueless look on his face.

“For starters, they don’t know that I live with you. They already think I’m hiding a relationship with you, and the fact that we live together would only solidify that in their minds.”

“You can just tell them that the rent on your apartment was going up, you were in a tough spot, and I offered my home to you,” Michael smirks. “And don’t worry about the size of the home. After all, I am in line to take over my father’s successful business, remember?”

“It won’t bother you that some people know where the Antichrist lives?”

He hesitates. “While that could potentially cause an issue, I don’t see why they would figure out my true lineage just by visiting.”

“So you’re fine with them stopping by?”

Michael sighs, “yes.”

“It’s a good thing the pentagrams and Satanic imagery are all restricted to the rooms that you frequent.”

“Yes, because however would we hide those pentagrams without any sort of supernatural help?” Michael dodges the pillow you throw at him with ease, smiling as he stands from the bed. “If you believe they’re trustworthy, then by all means, invite them over.”

You send the two a text with your address, along with a message warning them that  _“you guys are going to freak out, but please reserve it for after you get here and I explain some things.”_  They each respond almost immediately, confirming that they’ll be over in a few minutes. There’s nothing to do but finish the supper that Michael is pointedly staring at in a silent attempt to get you to eat, so you do as requested while engaging in your other favorite activity with Michael: playing iMessage games. 

An hour later, the doorbell rings. Since Michael had sent the majority of the staff home when Dinah arrived last night with strict instructions to not come back until Monday, he offers to go and let your friends in. Michael returns with your friends, Mallory with wide eyes and Kate with a grin on her face.

“Do you need anything before I retreat to my room, (Y/N)?” Michael asks.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Alright,” he smirks, glancing at your awestruck friends. “Text me if that changes.” Michael closes the door as he leaves, and Kate and Mallory immediately jump onto your bed with you.

“You have a lot of explaining to do!” Mallory exclaims before pausing. “Only if you’re feeling better, though.”

You roll your eyes teasingly. “Of course I’m feeling better, or else I wouldn’t have invited you and Kate over.”

“Good.” You’re sandwiched between the two, backs against the headboard as Kate and Mallory settle in beside you. “First things first: you’re  _living_  with Michael now?”

“Yeah, what the hell happened to your apartment? And your cat?” Kate asks.

“Okay, my cat is perfectly fine; she just likes Michael more than me now and is currently following him around,” you explain with a laugh. “The reason I had to move is because my landlord was converting the apartments into condos, which meant my rent was going to go through the roof if I stayed there.”

“So where does Michael come into the equation?”

“I wasn’t able to find an apartment in my budget, and he lives alone in this huge house that his father basically gave him. He offered to let me rent from him for less than what I was paying for my apartment, so I took it.”

Mallory cocks an eyebrow. “I know you’ve mentioned it before, but we were also a little drunk that night. How the hell does Michael’s dad have all that money? I saw the black Ferrari in the driveway when we pulled up.”

“I...don’t know.” Not exactly a lie. “His dad’s in business that I couldn’t begin to figure out--”

“Mafia?” Kate interjects.

“No. It’s like, finance or investing, something similar to that. He does lots of buying and selling, from what Michael told me.”

“And he just  _gives_  Michael anything he could wish for?”

“I know it seems like he’s just some spoiled rich boy, but he works really hard. His father’s really tough on him, he’s training Michael to take over the business once he steps down.” Again, you’re not lying, but you’re not telling the full truth. You’re not proud of it, but it’s what needs to be done.

“But there’s nothing going on between you two,” Mallory says with a sly smile. 

Leaning back, your groan turns to a laugh as Mallory and Kate both sling an arm over your shoulders. “I know what it seems like, but I promise we’re just friends! I was in a tough spot, and Michael offered to help me out. That’s all it is.”

“Does the mystery man who your earlier problems pertained to,” Kate references the advice they had given you after your movie night meltdown, “ and who, although he sounds a lot like Michael, isn’t actually Michael, know that you’re living with another guy.”

“Yes, and he’s fine with it.”

“You two are totally going to kiss.”

“If they haven’t already,” Mallory chimes in.

You visibly cringe. “You guys are making me wish I was still in the throes of food poisoning.”

“You wouldn’t puke on us! You love us too much.”

“Doesn’t change that I would absolutely puke on you if you talk about me and Michael like that again,” you retort. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be making me feel better?”

“We are!” Kate says in a sing-song tone, sticking her tongue out at you before grabbing the remote off of your nightstand and handing it to you. “I bet a heaping dose of  _Gossip Girl_  would help cure you.”

“I think you’re right.” Queueing the show up on Netflix, you pick one of your favorite episodes before settling in for quality bonding time with two of your closest friends.

It makes Michael smile to hear the giggling and talking emanating from your room for the rest of the evening. You deserve to be carefree and enjoying time with your friends, especially after what he’s put you through. He knows that he’s going to be in deep trouble with his father, and is honestly shocked his consciousness hasn’t been snatched to Hell yet for a conversation with daddy dearest. He also wonders about how he’s going to tell you that it was he who first sought out Satan’s advice on the matter, and nearly carried out the original plan. Those are worries for tomorrow, though. For now, you’re alive, and living with free will. That’s all that Michael could ever want for you.

Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. Everything seemed alright after you had finally woken up, but he can’t shake the dread that sits heavy in his chest. Maybe it’s because he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, or because there’s complete strangers that haven’t been vetted by the Cooperative in his house. 

Whatever the reason, Michael’s anxiety seems to stem from one of your friends-Mallory, he remembers you introducing her as. Something about her seems off, as if there’s a safe surrounding her head that he can’t seem to break through. The energy around her reminds him of energy he’s only felt when faced with Cordelia and her gang of witches, but your friend doesn’t seem to possess any sort of magic that he can feel. It’s troubling, and while Michael trusts you completely, he’s still determined to figure out what Mallory is hiding.


End file.
